


Throne Turned to Ash

by orphan_account



Series: Self Indulgent--is it Cannon? Oh my. [3]
Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, redone cannon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:40:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 48,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24958528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Reimagined cannon!Follows... yeah. The Throne of Glass story. Only it's how I imagined in my head.
Relationships: Caelena/Arobynn, Caelena/Sam, Celaena/Cain, Celaena/Dorian, minimal relationships
Series: Self Indulgent--is it Cannon? Oh my. [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1222055
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm going to do this in installments of chapters, each chapter is from a different POV.

# Aelin

She ran through the snow. Gasping. Aching. Steam rose off her body—obscuring her view as she raced to get away from the sound of dog’s barking and screaming; screaming from the trees that realized their heart’s center was dying, screaming from the people still left alive who were losing hope that anyone would come to save them.

Her feet melted the snow beneath her, and the winter’s wind froze up the puddle the second her foot left it. So her cowardice was crystalized in a long, meandering trail.

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered anymore.

Still, Princess Aelin Ashryver of Terra ran. She ran as fast as her legs could carry her. Till she found the raging river that boarded her home-country from its neighbors. From its invaders, who had already invaded.

Behind her, the shouting got louder. Harsher. And around her, the OakHeart screamed its last lamenting death—before silence. She felt the magic crashing around her. Dipping down deep, deep into the Earth where not even the Great-Trees could feel. And the fire snuffed itself out of her veins. She was cold, suddenly. Instantly. For the first time in her life she no longer felt like she was burning alive. Instead of steam leaking off her body, there was only a pale ghost of breath.

And bad memories to come and chase her.

She looked at the raging river. Behind her, the soldiers of Adolin were nearing. She had seen how they killed her mother, her father, her brothers and sisters. And she did not want to die by their hands.

Clutching her necklace in her bloody fist, she flung herself into the raging river, crashed through the crust of ice, and chose her own fate. To wash the blood off her body.


	2. Buying The Stone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Names have been changed. Half because I have a really, really hard time typing on Celaena and spelling it correctly and half because I just because the names suit me and the version of this story better.

# Dorian Havilliard

Darian had never been so nervous. He rubbed his hands down the trousers of the rough soldier’s uniform that he’d stolen from the guard’s station. It was baggy on him, and he’d never felt such course fabric on his skin before.

Still, the uniform itself was familiar. He’d seen it every day of his life, at Rifthold Castle. Having it on made him comfortable. It was—well, armor, which protected him from the unhygienic half-naked criminals, the smell of sweat and booze, and the sounds of pain. The name of the bar, The Vault, had seemed like a bad joke before Dorian had walked in. Now he understood. The second he’d walked down the basement steps, all he could hear was screaming; screaming from the horribly mistreated women in the back. Screaming from the fighter’s in the pits before the bar, who broke each other’s bones. Screaming from the crowd that egged those fighters on. It felt like he was in a Vault.

He rubbed his hands again—but stilled as Chaol gave him a look over the crooked bar table. The man was also in a borrowed uniform.

“Are you really sure you want to do this?” Chaol asked. Dorian straightened—but not too straight, no one here had good posture, and it would make him stand out more than he already did—and met Chaol’s stare.

“Yes. Yes, Goodman, I am.”

Chaol grimaced at the honorific, looking to their right. A group of men playing cards around a round table, their faces obscured by bad lighting and worse smelling cigar smoke, were the closest people to them. But all those men were too busy threatening each other and trying to cheat to notice Dorian’s gentrified slip-up. “It’s a bad plan.” Chaol grumbled, leaning forward. He punched his index finger into the table. “Bad. Plan.”

“You have bad plans yourself.”

“Yeah, but you’re raising the bar. You want to bring an assassin into this, an assassin,” Chaol leaned even closer, lowered his voice even more, “One who has been credited with killing not one, not ten, but at least half a _hundred_ of Adolin’s nobility. And for what? A stupid contest.”

“The Stone can’t be that bad.” Dorian grabbed his drink, which tasted more like cleaning products than whiskey. “And show some respect.”

“To who? To the Stone?” Chaol scoffed.

“No. To me. To my fine ideas.” Dorian raised up his glass, then shoved it all back down his throat. So he wouldn’t have to taste it before it burned through his stomach lining and into his nerves. “I need The Stone. She’s the best.”

Dorian was saved from a lecture as a serving girl came forward. Only, he had no idea if she was actually a serving girl or a whore—and if Vault’s was a brothel or a fighting-pit. Maybe it was both. She came forward with her breasts hanging out, getting perilously close to Chaol’s face, and was rolling her hips like she was double-jointed. If it weren’t for her smell, or the bruises and cuts that covered her yellowed skin, Dorian would find himself interested. She had a beautiful frame, and her breasts bounced with every movement she made.

The woman asked if they wanted a refill, her voice and eyes dead. As if she wasn’t really there. Dorian avoided looking at her and gruffly ordered two more—for his nerves. Chaol flicked away her attention with a dismissive wave of the hand.

“How do you know she won’t just take up the offer and kill us—the King—and everyone in the bloody castle the second she’s allowed inside?”

“Why would she?” It was an honest question. Dorian couldn’t think of a reason why the famous assassin _would_ kill them. She’d had plenty of opportunities to do so. She’d gotten so close to him, in fact, that he’d seen her, sitting on his balcony in his tower.

He’d known it was the assassin, The Stone, at the time. He’d gotten up because of the chill and had wandered from bed to see why his balcony doors were open. And he’d seen this small, wisp of a thing, just sitting on the ledge, looking out over the city, covered in black from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. She hadn’t turned, just said, in a female’s husky voice, to go back to bed. So Dorian had. He’d thought it was all a strange dream until the castle guards were screaming that the Duke Parrington had been killed in his chambers. That the famous assassin’s calling card, a simple black stone, had been found in the Duke’s mouth.

He’d wondered for a long time why she hadn’t killed him that night. And in the end, he’d decided it was probably because she hadn’t been paid to. That, or she was politically inclined and didn’t want to see Dorian’s younger brother ascend to the throne.

Either way, there didn’t seem to be a reason for her to turn on them if she took this job.

“She’s the best, Chaol. And I need the best.” Dorian was desperate to win the competition. Desperate to get the boon from the King.

Chaol leaned back, his thick shoulders shifting under his uniform as he crossed his arms. They’d had this conversation many times, over the last two months. Still, Chaol was here. “You know I have your back,” He said, echoing Dorian’s thoughts. “I just think this is a rash, foolish decision.” There was a heavy pause. “We could find someone else. I heard there is a good mercenary band coming down from the White Fangs in a week or two, they’re bound to have somebody worthwhile. And if you looking for a legend, there's always Aedion.”

“They won’t be as good.” Even if the mercenaries could survive Aedion’s merry-band-of-assholes. Even if Aedion himself could bring himself from whoring long enough to get to the Capitol. 

Chaol nodded. It was a statement of fact they both agreed on.

The Stone had been a terror on Adolin for nearly ten years now, even if she had disappeared off the face of the continent for three of them. She killed quickly and brutally. Out in the open or in the privacy of an estate or fortress—it didn’t matter, nowhere was safe. Not even Dorian’s own tower in the castle was safe. And everyone knew it was her, because she placed the black stone in their mouths when she was done with them, which is how she’d gotten the name.

She was the first one he’d thought of when the King had proclaimed to his inner-Council about the competition of Champions. All Council members had to pick a representative to sponsor, a potential competitor from any prison, any army, any slave encampment or mercenary group. And then the King said he’d give a boon to whichever sponsor won. And Dorian desperately needed to win.

Even if it meant meeting the Stone again.

The woman returned, breasts exposed and hips swinging. Dorian avoided looking at her again as she set the glasses down. When he saw that they were filled with cream and honey, though, he did look up. Her dead gaze had changed. There was a franticness in them. “She said she’ll meet you in the back. Room 4. Give her this.” And she quickly escaped the table, no longer bothering to showcase her body as she fled.

Dorian looked at Chaol, then away. “Last chance, Dorian.” He said, eyes grave. “Last chance to back out.”

“It’s done.” And it was. He’d sent the letter to the Assassin’s Guild, wishing to hire her. They’d corresponded to meet here. She knew who he was—knew what he wanted. And she’d already proven that she could find him herself, if the need arose.

Dorian touched the glass in front of him. The milk was warm. He wasn’t stupid enough to taste it—many of the Stone’s kills had been with poison—but he imagined it tasted just like the drink his nurse-maid would give him when he was a child and he couldn’t sleep.

He stood, taking the drink with him. They walked past the table of gamblers, the crowds of cheering men and women screaming for blood around the fighting pits and walked towards the very back. Where the screams turned into moans and groans and the creaking of beds.


	3. A Job Not Worth Taking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elle is Celaene

# Elle

Elle spat some blood in the water basin left in Room 4 as Rosemary walked into the room, slipping through the crack of the door.

“Thanks, love.” She grabbed the warm glass of milk and honey out her hand and used it to wash the blood out of her mouth. “They still there?”

“Yes.” Rosemary sat on the bed, bare breasts bouncing. “They’re both there. Talking about how bad of an idea it is, hiring you.” A soft, half-dead smile lingered on her lips as she caressed the stained sheets under her. “From what I gather, the older one is trying to talk the younger, stiffer one out of it.”

The older one would be Lord Chaol Westfall. Or was it just Goodman Chaol Westfall, now that he’d abdicated from his title, lands, and lineage to join the Royal Guard? The transitions of titles were always tricky in Adolin, where a man was only as good as the people he rubbed shoulders with. There was no questioning who the younger one was, though. Or his title.

Elle hummed, putting the glass down on the table by the basin that was typically used to wash the blood and cum off the whores and johns after their time in Room 4. “What’s the consensus, then?” Not that she didn’t already know. The Goodmen and Goodwomen of Adolin typically never hired Elle unless they were desperate—and a Havilliard hiring her? That was desperation bordering on suicide.

The last time she’d seen the man was four years ago. She’d snuck into the castle to kill the late Duke Parrington on a contract and found herself in the lonely tower to escape a guard rotation that shouldn't have been there. She’d thought about slashing the Prince's throat as he slept, just for the sheer pleasure of killing him. But he’d been so… unexpected.

Everyone in Adolin knew Dorian. He was adored by women. Envied by men. He set fashion trends and lapped circles around the court, pushing the other Councilmen into corners of his design. They said he hadn’t lost a legislative bill that he’d pushed forward. That he hadn’t found a woman he couldn’t seduce into bed—or a bastard son that his father hadn’t killed before it could get in its first breath. Elle had expected to see some handsome, lordly man in the lonely tower inside Rifthold castle. A man surrounded by wealth and clothes and jewels, wrapped in the arms of a woman or two.

Instead, she’d found a gangly scholar with an angel’s face. He’d been surrounded by books—so many books that she’d had trouble not crashing into the horrendously messy stacks of them, scattered across his narrow, tiny rooms—and papers and legislative bills and more books. He’d snored. And looked absolutely nothing like the King. Staring at him had brought to mind the rumor's she'd heard that Prince Dorian was the Queen's bastard.

So she’d let him be. Call it a moment of weakness, call it a heart—Elle had found herself walking away.

Now he was here, looking to hire her.

“He’s rather pretty, the younger one.” Rosemary said, shifting on the bed. “I wouldn’t mind if he picked me up.”

Elle looked at Rosemary, really looked at her, for the first time since she’d come into the room. She was half-naked, and obviously accustomed to it. Her skin was yellowing from the disease of drugs that rotted her from the inside out, and her eyes were bloodshot from a recent hit of the pipe. The woman didn’t have much time left. “Have you thought any more about my offer?”

“What offer?”

“Oh, you know, the one where I swoop in and save you from your life, that one.” Elle took another sip of her drink, which took away the stale flavor of blood still coating her mouth.

“Oh, that one.” Rosemary looked away. Balled the sheets up in her fist.

Elle just had to wait. And she was a patient enough woman when she had to be. She’d known Rosemary for a long time, since assassins and whores typically tended to spend a lot of time together in the slums, rubbing shoulders and whatnot. She’d approached Rosemary for information, giving her a bit of cash to sleep and spy on a mark. For as long as Elle had known her, the woman was addicted to drugs and abuse.

And Elle knew the answer before Rosemary said it, because it was the same answer she always gave.

“I can’t.”

She _could_ , actually. Elle had done it enough times—grabbing orphans, whores, cripples, beggars, and wounded soldiers off the streets and offering them a salary and a home for the cost of spying. It wasn’t an easy job, Elle would never pretend otherwise, but she kept her people safe. She’d keep Rosemary safe. But she’d also keep Rosemary _clean_. Drugs and spying didn’t go hand in hand.

“Fine.” Elle shouldn’t push. “It’s stupid, but hey, I can only do so much.”

“Oh, piss off.” Elle grinned at the fire in the woman’s red eyes. At seeing a little bit of the death-impression melt away. “Don’t pretend your such a saint.”

“Wait, I’m not a saint?” Elle put a hand to her chest, her eyes opening wide. “The Clergy lied to me! They said there was an opening.”

With a half-smile, Rosemary got off the bed. “You want them in here?”

It was a stupid question, so Elle didn’t answer it. Instead, she handed Rosemary the empty glass. “Get me another.”

Rosemary took the glass and stepped towards the door, but paused before opening it, like she always did. Like she wanted Elle to fight and beg her to stay and take the offer that’s been handed to her again and again. “Why—” She held herself back. “Who are the men?”

The idea of Rosemary freaking out was the only reason why Elle told her. “The crowned Prince and Captain of the royal guard.”

Rosemary scoffed. “Come off it—really, who are they?”

“Really.” Elle looked at the woman from under her lashes. She watched Rosemary still, as the thoughts started turning through her opium-addled brain. The second Rosemary understood, she was choking on her own spit and turning a shade of red. That red got more furious as Elle laughed.

Rosemary slammed the door against the wall in her hurry to get out. The room was so small that Elle only needed to lean forward and grab it as it swung, to gently pushing it to closed. She leaned back against the table and waited.

Elle had thought long and hard about this job, before telling Dorian to come to the Vault. She’d thought through all the options, all the consequences, just like she did with every job.

At first, she’d thought it was a scam to get her back in irons. Hiring assassins was common enough in Adolin, but the crown Prince himself? He’d never resorted to violence to fix the court-game. And from what she’d heard of him, he never needed to.

But after shadowing him for nearly a month, pretending at being a serving girl, she’d realized it was true. Dorian was anxious about something. And the King’s inner-Council was on the move, collecting Names from all around the country.

Whatever it was, Elle wanted to be in. The timing was good, too, since her Master was breathing down her neck, getting closer and closer to shoving a dagger between her shoulders.

If the pay off was good enough, it meant Elle could disappear. Really disappear. Maybe go across the sea to her mother's homeland. Maybe even hide away at home. Somewhere, anywhere, where her Master’s long reach couldn’t grab her by the neck and strangle her.

She waited a minute. Then two. Then three.

Her impatience was about to snap when the door finally opened.

A big burly, middle-aged man came in. Goodman Chaol Westfall looked like his ancestors, who owned Anielle, the Lake Shore, and protected the Adolin boarders from the savages of the White Fangs. He nearly filled the doorway with his height, his muscles, and his stone-hewn face was gently wrinkled. He wore the guard uniform like it was made for him, like it was more a part of his skin than his muscles were.

Elle watched as he touched the pommel of his sword as his eyes scanned the room—then rested on her. He made the mistake of letting go of that pommel as he stood in the doorway, frowning at her.

“I think we have the wrong room, miss.” He had the clipped accent of the gentry.

“What’s going on?” An even more clipped voice asked. A softer voice, almost whisper-like. A voice that never needed to speak up to be heard. Dorian was tall, but even he couldn’t see over Chaol’s shoulder.

“Just a girl—”

Elle resented that. “You have my drink?”

Chaol froze from turning and pushing Dorian out of the doorway. He turned to look at her, again, and his hand never once moved backed to his sword as he took her in. Or to any of the knives he had strapped on his person. His eyes narrowed on her face. “Who are you?” He demanded.

“Do. You. Have. My. Drink?”

“I do.” Dorian’s voice floated in. “Chaol, please move.”

Chaol hesitated but followed the command. Despite thinking that Elle wasn’t a threat, he moved to keep himself between Elle and Dorian in the tiny, cramped room. By his stance, he seemed to think that any weapons other than his size and fists wouldn’t be necessary. And he might be right. One punch from the man would knock Elle out. Not that she’d let him get a punch in.

A sharp breath sounded, and Elle kept one eye on Chaol while she looked at Dorian, the crowned Prince of Adolin. He stood in the doorway, too, the glass of milk and honey in his hand. He’d aged since she’d last seen him. Filled out a bit, so he no longer looked so gangly. And he truly was beautiful, with his Adolin cream-white skin, his sharp features, his blindingly bright blue eyes. He wore the guard’s uniform—which was too big and baggy on him—with as if it was uncomfortable.

She watched him, as he took her in with those beautiful sky-light eyes.

Elle had often wondered what people thought they looked at her. Old Gods and New, it was half her job to make sure they had one impression of her or another. Tonight, she’d chosen a very simple disguise: she was herself, only beaten up. She’d spent a good hour in the fighting pits of the Vault, winning bets, letting a few good punches in, making sure her face was messed up before cleaning away all the sweat and dirt and putting on new—well worn—clothes. She was painfully aware of the swelling on her left eye, and the split of her right cheekbone and lip.

She reached forward, past Chaol, and grabbed the drink out of Dorian’s hand. By the time she’d settled back with her drink, Chaol had finally understood what she’d done. He blinked, stiffened, reached for her too late. His big, meaty hand hung in the air, as if trying to grasp something that had slipped out.

“Salu.” Elle said, an old saying she'd picked up from the Desert, before lifted up the drink and took a sip. 

“ _You’re_ the Stone?” Dorian gasped. Gods, who had a face like that?

Elle sighed. “Mind shutting the door there, Your Highness?” Chaol stiffened further at the disrespect, but Dorian himself was too busy gaping to care or notice. He did what she asked, locking them all into the tiny, tiny space. He was pushed up between Chaol’s big body and the door. Here, no one but the tiny could maneuver around, which left the men at a very distinct disadvantage. “And no, I’m not the Stone.” She lied.

Elle hated the stupid nickname the Adolin’s gave her. As if they had no concept of prayer beads. The Holy Killer—which they called her in Eyllew—was a much better nickname. Or the Bloodletter, which they only called her in the Red Dessert. In Terra, though, she was the Queen of Shadows.

“But—what—”

“I was told you were a lot more… articulate.” Elle glanced at him over the rim of her cup.

She watched him transform from a flabbergasted man with an angel’s face to an ice-cold courtier who wetted panties between law-making. It was subtle, but well played out. His features turned amusedly bored, his posture more relaxed, but tighter. It was mostly his eyes, though, that changed. They frosted over, all warmth gone. “And I was told, my GoodLady, that I would be meeting the Stone assassin. Apparently not, thank you for your time.”

Elle called his bluff and waited for him to move so he could wrestle the door open. He did not. Her smile grew, splitting her lip open again. She watched a muscle in his jaw twitch as blood trickled down her own. She watched as Chaol crossed his big, burly arms of a chest that appeared more barrel than torso. “You really think Mistress Stone would waste her time with a trap?” She asked sweetly.

“I can assure you, I have designed no trap. I merely want her service.”

“Tell me, then.” Elle shrugged. She put the cup by her hip. “I have been given orders, and I must hear out what you want.”

“All this cloak and dagger is unnecessary.” Chaol grumbled. He had a deep voice. 

“That is why you are a royal guard, and I am an assassin.” When he arched two furry eyebrows, Elle sucked on her teeth and looked down. Towards his feet, where he was solidly planted. “Fine—apprentice assassin. But I’ll be getting there soon as the Mistress gets off her great, bony ass and lets me be.” Elle was good at acting petulant. It helped that her lip was swollen. She tasted her own blood again as she tongued the cut.

Elle had always found it hilarious, how most of the world thought that children couldn’t possibly be assassins. But that was the point. Who suspected a child, wailing and crying over seeing their first dead body, to be the very hand that plunged the dagger? Elle had played up those assumptions so many times she’d almost forgotten what it was like to be seen as a threat. As the years went by, it helped that she hadn’t grown tall. Or filled out in many womanly ways. Or that her face was stuck round and soft.

Dorian sighed. “We really must speak to your Mistress, girl. The information is important.”

Elle glared at him, then looked away quickly. Gods what was with his face! It was like a shock to the system every time she looked at him.

“She doesn’t meet her clients, so it’s me, or nothing.” It was usually true, too. Before Elle pissed off her Master, before she’d gotten betrayed and shackled, she hadn’t met a single one of her clients. All requests went through the Assassins Guild, and she got paid through the Guild. But those days were long over, so it was mostly disguises and clandestine meeting rooms now a days. Never once had she met a client as herself, though. Always the lacky apprentice, stubborn and broodish and wishing to ascend to the highest of slaughtering stardom, eager to make a Name for herself.

“How old are you, girl?” Chaol asked. And his voice was still harsh, but it was the pity in his eyes that rankled Elle.

“Older than a day, younger than a millennium.”

Dorian sighed, rubbing his face. “This was a mistake.”

“Finally, you—” Chaol moved to get Dorian out of the room, but Dorian held up his hand, stopping the bigger man in his tracks.

“A necessary mistake.” Dorian corrected. He looked over at Elle, shocking her system yet again with the icy perfection of his face. “It is necessary that I meet with your Mistress, girl, eventually. I don’t want her for a single kill, but on a… semi-permanent retainer.”

“Oh?” Wasn’t that interesting.

Dorian nodded. “The King is hosting a competition, gathering… the most ruthless this country has seen. I want—had been hoping, of course,” He did a little bow. “That I could meet with your Mistress and request her services in this competition. She would receive shelter and food in the castle for the duration of the contest—which would last thirteen weeks.”

“You want an assassin to live in the castle for thirteen weeks.” Why was it the powerful men who came to her with the stupidest of jobs? Seriously.

Chaol looked ready to throttle her, but Dorian only turned up his charm, giving her a lazy, sexy smile that would have made a young girl blush. Wyrd, it made _Elle_ blush. “The nature of the competition allows for amnesty. The King’s writ,” He grabbed a piece of paper from the inside of his uniform’s pocket. “Claim that any and all who join the competition are given a pardon for any and all crimes. Many of the other council member’s chosen are being swept up from prisons and the like, and have… maybe not as _strong_ of a reputation as your mistress, but as criminal as hers. If she were to join me, as her sponsor, I would be responsible that she receives no attention for past acts.”

“As long as she follows the rules.” Chaol muttered.

“Yes, as long as she follows the rules. That means no killing, no stealing, no—well, criminal acts. She would just be there to act as a Champion, nothing more.”

Champion? “This contest is to find a Champion?” The image of a young boy with fire-and-gold locks and a wicked smile flashed through Elle’s head. A boy who’d follow her around, a wooden sword never far away from his fingers, as the two of them played in the sun.

“When the competition is done, the winner has the chance to serve as the King’s Champion, yes.” Dorian said. “If that was what your Mistress wanted…”

Adolins could even bastardize the concept of Champions, it seemed.

Champions were chosen bodyguards, family, and best friends. They were the voice behind the figure, a person who whispered against folly and stupidity. Trust people who protected the mind as well as the body. Honored people. Champions were _not_ criminals who fought their way through a hoard of other criminals so they could be at the King’s beck and call.

If Elle’s eyeroll offended them, they didn’t show it. “Fine, fine. So, you want to hire her for thirteen weeks to sit in the castle and fight a bunch of other people so she can sit at the foot of the King’s throne?”

“That about sums it up, yes.” Dorian clasped his hands behind his back. “But being his Champion is not necessary, if she doesn’t wish it.”

Elle doubted that very much, even if Dorian seemed guileless. “And what do the sponsors get out of all this?”

“That’s unnecessary for you to know.” Chaol snapped.

“No. It _is_ necessary. I have to get all the facts.” Elle touched her face in a self-conscious gesture, then glared at the men as their eyes softened, as if she hadn’t been planning for their pity. “Piss me off and my Mistress will never hear your names again.”

“A boon.” Dorian said quickly, before Chaol could snap at her again. “The winning sponsor receives a boon from the King. The boon I would request has nothing to do with your Mistress, so that answer will have to suffice.”

What would a crowned Prince need with a boon? What could the King offer him he didn’t already have? Elle mulled it over, thinking. “Will she be shackled and imprisoned at any point in time during the contest?” Gods—was she really contemplating saying yes? It was a fool's mission, and would only serve to get her closer to the one man in the world she was truly terrified of. She could remember him as a child, the way he'd stared at her as something dark and slimy slithered into her mind and set her on fire.

“No. Like all other champions, she will receive a room in the castle, and meals. She will also train with Goodman Chaol, since all champions are required to have a trainer to ensure fitness. She will have guards watching her—”

“Many.” Chaol grumbled.

“—But they will not restrain or harm her unless she attempts to flee or hurt somebody. Every so often, at random times designed by the Game Master, there will be a test, which I’ve been told is deadly, and the poorest will be sent home; either back to where they were found, or home, depending on the contract between sponsor and champion.”

It was stupid and desperate and crazy. Still… “How much?”

Dorian arched an eyebrow, and somehow, he got even more attractive. “The sum is 500 gold.”

Shit. Enough to buy a luxurious trip over the seas—Wyrd, the boat that would take her there, too. 500 gold would buy a secure life on another continent, away from the reaches of furious Masters and Adolish Kings. With that kind of money, there would be no trouble at all disappearing.

“We truly do want your Mistress. She is the best.” Dorian frowned, then moved to grab the handle of the door. “Relay our request to her, please, and have her contact us before the week is out. The competition starts at the end of the month, and she will need to be at the castle.”

Elle watched them file out of the room quickly, her tongue finding the cut on her lip. She licked it, again and again as her mind got very quiet and still. Her thoughts should be racing. She should be trying to look at the job from every angle, but her mind was simply… blank. Time passed slowly, in the room. As she listened to the whores and johns going at it next door. As he listened to the rapturous cheer of the bidders around the pit.

Rosemary slipped in through the crack of the door, waking Elle up, cutting off her gentle humming. “How did it go, then?” She asked, looking anxious. She paused, as she saw Elle, then rushed forward to grab smaller, more scarred hands still swollen and split from a round or two in the pits. “Elle, doll, what happened?”

“Nothing.” Elle shook her off and drank the rest of her now cold milk and honey. Still, it was delicious. “Nothing important, anyway.”

“Are you… taking the job?”

“Yeah.” A coldness swept down her spine, and she shuddered. “Fool that I am, yeah.” She was glad Rosemary didn’t ask why, because Elle truly didn’t know.


	4. A Child at the Castle

# Chaol Westfall

It was a bad idea, hiring the assassin. Wyrd, the entire competition was a bad idea, in Chaol Westfall’s eyes.

But no one asked him for his opinion, they just paid him to protect them from bad ideas, ideas he couldn't tell them not to have—so he stood in the mouth of the alley where the Stone had said she’d meet them. He stood beside his mare, while Dorian sat on his stallion, and they waited to escort the most infamous person in Adolin _inside the bloody castle_.

The entire competition was a nightmare of logistics. He’d spent the past few weeks planning, replanning, and then cursing about planning how to guard all the new criminals that found themselves flooding the castle. The few sponsors that wanted their competitors in the dungeon during the duration of the competition—the smart bastards—were the easier to deal with. But the ones that wanted their competitors right next to their suites? Or the ones that requested such-and-such room, facing such-and-such hall? Nightmares. Absolute nightmares. The guard’s shifts had tripled, encompassing not only their normal duties but shifts in front of doors, windows, and everywhere else.

He’d tried warning the King off the idea, but it was impossible to dissuade the King of anything. He wanted a bunch of criminals in his home, fighting each other? He’d get it.

And if Dorian wanted The Stone to be his competitor? He’d get it.

Sometimes, Chaol wished he’d stayed in Anielle. Being a Lord would have been so much easier.

“Do you think—she’s coming, isn’t she?” Dorian asked, as the stallion shifted his weight. The thing was twenty hands tall, from a long lineage of unflappable war-horses that were made to rush the front lines of an army. It was a beautiful beast, but not for the streets. Not for standing still for long periods of time.

“Yes, Dorian. She’s coming.” Chaol hoped not. But still, the Stone had replied, saying she’d take the offer if the sum grew to 700 gold pieces. Since then, Dorian had been an anxious mess of nerves.

He stilled as a figure came towards them in a long black cape, cloak covering them. But then the tension leaked out of him, when he noticed the size of the figure.

It was the girl, again. Not the Stone.

He hadn’t seen the little thing moving—not even when she _had_ moved, to reach around him in that tiny whore’s room—but he recognized the swagger of her steps. Recognized the impossible delicate figure that the robe failed to hide.

Dorian, however, didn’t. He tensed further on the stallion, which shifted, bumping into Chaol and throwing him off balance. He snarled at the thing, grabbing the reins, but it’s not like it mattered. It was just the girl.

She came closer and stopped in front of them. Even with the noon sun high above, he couldn’t see past the shadows under her hood. “Mistress Stone, you—”

Dorian was cut off by a familiar, mocking laugh. And the girl threw off her hood. Revealed a doll’s face, with round cheeks, tiny chin, and impossibly large, iridescent eyes. Only those eyes were cold, and cruel, and made Chaol feel like she was batting him around between tiny paws, waiting for him to get exhausted. The noon light made the long, wild waves of her golden-red hair shine.

Gods, she was even younger and prettier with all the swelling down. Like the fae-creatures that his mother would tell him about when he was a boy. Only, there were no more fae in Erilea, not after King Havilliard’s Purge. The few unhuman Terrans who’d survived had all fled back to their motherland across the seas.

“I—what—” And Dorian was caught again by her charms. As if he couldn’t see how wrong those eyes were. How much damage they exposed. But he’d always been a sucker for a pretty face. It was his one and only weakness.

“Eloquent, as always.” The girl taunted. It was odd, that she had such a woman’s voice, all soft and husky.

“We are expecting your Mistress, girl.” Chaol chided. Like he would his own children, had he decided to father any. Gods, she could be the age of his own children.

She blinked up at him, and he was hit with the strangeness of her eyes. They were absolutely pale, almost indistinguishable from the whites—only they glittered and shone with color. Like opals. They were the most Wyrd-driven thing he’d ever seen and made him feel trapped. Exposed. “As I said, my Mistress does not meet with clients.”

Chaol was going to throttle her. He was going to take her by her tiny shoulders and shake her till that thin neck snapped back and forth. “We told you—”

“And I told you.” The insufferable thing rolled her eyes, putting a tiny hand on a tiny hip. “She declined, but I intercepted the message before it got to you, so you’d be here.” An eagerness shone on her face. “Come on, ask me why.”

“Why?” Dorian asked, taking the bait with a little breathless question.

“Because, I,” She flung back her cloak, revealing a simple peasant’s dress that encased a tiny little figure, sweeping down into a mocking curtsey, “Will be your _champion_.” Chaol didn’t like the way she said that word, didn’t like how the unseen darkness in her eyes moved as the surface glittered and shone like a rainbow.

“You cannot!” Dorian sounded scandalized by the very idea. And Chaol truly wished Dorian was upset because she was underqualified, rather than pretty.

“I really don’t like being told what I can and cannot do, Dorian.” She said, casually disrespecting the crowned Prince with her tone, the glare of her eyes, the lack of title. He watched her inspect her tiny pink nails, which contrasted sharply with the bruised and split skin of her knuckles. What could she even punch, with hands like that? A pillow?

Chaol spoke up. “You’re underqualified. And—”

A spark of darkness. The barest flash of hatred over her little features. “I am very qualified. It’s not my fault that my Mistress would rather have a servant than an apprentice. I’m ready.” She threw back her shoulders. Revealed more of herself. She was so narrow that she didn’t even need a bodice, and only had a small rope tied around her hips. And then an evil little smile spread across a mouth the size and shape of a bowed button. “And it’s too late to go looking for anyone else decent.”

Chaol counted his breaths. One. Two. Three. In and out, out and in.

Because Dorian had banked everything on the Stone. For some reason, he had been absolutely positive that he could get the reclusive assassin out of hiding and into the competition under his name. So he hadn’t looked for anyone else. Hadn’t even tried.

Dorian was not going to win the contest. That was a shame, but Chaol was fiercely glad that the Stone wouldn’t be in his castle. He’d be able to replace the ten guards he’d had posted outside of her suite and filter them where they were needed most. “Fine, let’s go and get on with it.” He turned, striding to his mare.

“But, Chaol.” He looked up at his friend’s face. Saw the horror and despair resting there.

Chaol had met the young Prince when he was in his early twenties. His father had been in Rifthold for a half a year, planning the dam that would recede some of the Silver Lake’s waters so an easier path between Anielle and the White Frost mountains could be made during the winter. Chaol had hated that half-year, hated the smells of the city, the crowds of the castle, the pettiness of the court. He’d wanted his wide-open fortress town back, the blasting hearths where his mother would tell him stories, where he could train with guards that were as big, if not bigger, than he was.

But then he’d seen the little prince, maybe seven or eight years old, shyly walking into the courtyard for his first fencing lesson. He hadn’t even been big enough to hold the wood sword upright. And somewhere between calming the Prince, and training him, and finding friendship with the soldiers and guards—Chaol’s home back in Anielle had become too… vast. Too wide open. The stories at the hearth he’d longed for became boring. The people had become bland and simple.The presence of his father oppressive. But mostly, he’d missed the brother he’d made in the Prince.

Chaol reached up. Grabbed Dorian’s leather encased hand, and ignored how it shook. “We will test her mettle at the castle.” Once the decision was irrevocable and they couldn’t hire an opportunistic cutthroat instead of a young girl.

Dorian looked down, then at the girl behind Chaol. His face soured. “Aye, your right.”

“There’s a good lad.” The girl mocked. “Let’s get to it, then.”

Chaol jumped onto his horse, then moved the mare forward so the girl had to stop short. As unthreatening as she was, she was not getting near Dorian. “Up. Come on.” He offered a hand to her. She looked up at him again, ripping his skull open with her gaze so she could dig inside and find him lacking. Then her hand slid into his. A child’s hand, it rested in his palm as he surrounded it with his fingers. Only her hand was rough with calluses. And there was a silvery scar jagging across the top of her hand, confusing him as to what would have made it.

The biggest confusion came when he lifted her. It made no sense, how heavy she was. Especially as she rested sideways on the saddle before his legs and didn’t even come up to his collar bone. He could, easily, surround her waist with both his hands. Yet she was dense enough that he had to bring her up by straining against his stirrups, his back muscles tensing and biceps aching?

“Come now, Goodman.” She chirped, and he thought the light flutter on his thigh was her slapping him. “Try to smile like it won’t break your face.”

He thought about pushing her off, then immediately felt guilt for the idea. She was impossibly fragile feeling, and the fall might break the twigs that made up her ankles.

They moved slowly and quietly through the alleys of the merchant’s district, which would be bustling with crowds and commerce, soon. As it was, hardly any servants ran around hot evening light, setting up stalls and trying not to faint under the afternoon heat. “I need to know things.” Dorian said, riding close. “And I need a straight answer.”

“Oh, from me?” Chaol couldn’t see what her face was doing, but her voice annoyed him.

Dorian nodded. “Yes. What is your name?”

“People call me Elle.”

“Elle what?”

“No last name.” No family, then, either. An orphan on the streets of Rifthold. He didn’t know many options for the poor and hungry, but it was a God’s crying shame that she’d been picked up by assassins and turned to a life of murdering crime.

“Okay. How old are you, Elle?”

“Fifty-five.”

“Wyrd curse you, real answers, girl!” Chaol barked.

She turned her head up to look at him, little mouth puckering even more as her eyes mocked his existence. “It is a real answer.”

“A truthful one, then.” Dorian pleaded.

She sighed and turned to look back at the Prince. “Fine. I’m young.”

Chaol boiled with frustration. “Okay. Elle. Have you… ah… ever been…”

“Been…?” She stirred a little hand in the air, imploring with her insufferable attitude for him to finish the sentence. Chaol, as her trainer these next thirteen weeks, would teach her manners and respect, first.

“Have you ever killed someone before?” Chaol asked, since Dorian seemed unwilling to speak the words out loud.

“Oh. Yes. Lots.” She shrugged, devaluing human life with the simplest, most obnoxious gestures Chaol had ever seen. “Lots and lots.” She was lying. He could feel it in his bones. “It’s an easy thing.”

“I will test her.” Chaol vowed.

Dorian nodded. “The sponsors aren’t inclined to share who’ve they brought with them, so thankfully no one will think that you’re the Stone. We’ll say you're… Elle Lillian. A jewel thief,” That would explain how quick she was, at least, and it suited her looks. “From… Bellhaven.” Far enough away that no one would have thought to question not seeing her. “The daughter of a Terran merchant who relocated after the Purge,” Which explained her Terran-honeyed skin tone. “I met you last Summer in tour—and sent for you when I heard of the competition. Yes. That will do.”

“A jewel thief, hu?” Was she never unamused?

“Remember, you must behave yourself in the castle. And avoid the other contestants, they’re a nasty lot. And please, if you feel overwhelmed with any of it—”

“I’ll make sure to come running to you, tears in my eyes.”

Chaol snorted. They were quiet then, as they passed the merchant’s block, went through the winding estates, and came to the East gate. Chaol signaled above the girl’s head, and they waited as the outer gates rose, then lowered, then as the inner gates rose. They took the long, tree-lined path down to the Eastern courtyard where stable hands rushed up to greet them and take their horses.

A young stable boy around the girl’s age reached up for her, face blisteringly red as he wrapped his hands around her waist. Chaol watched. Saw how she put tiny hands on the boy’s shoulders. How the boy wrapped his own hands around her waist, almost swallowing the 20 inches that was her waist, and then nearly dropped her as her weight hit him.

Was she wearing something? Hiding something? Where was all the weight coming from?

Chaol got off quickly, throwing his leg over the mare’s neck and then sliding down. He grabbed her shoulder as she seemed to taunt the stable boy, making sure she didn’t go running. Her shoulders were so small that his hand didn’t even fit the space. He watched as she took in the castle.

Dorian came over. “Six hundred rooms, military and servant’s quarters, three gardens, a game park, and stables at all four entrances.” Dorian gave her a friendly sort of smile, but he seemed as dumbstruck about her as Chaol was. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

“I’ve always envied the gentry’s ability to brag humbly.” She dipped under his hand and gave another mocking curtsy. “Your Highness.”

Dorian didn’t seem to know what to do, so Chaol pushed her a little in the direction of the castle’s entrance. “I’ll escort her to her rooms.” He said. Dorian looked relieved. And stressed. And horrified.

Chaol would have to stop by after dropping her off, so he could calm the Prince. But then one of the Ladies strolling the courtyard, having heard of his arrival, caught Dorian’s eye. There would be no need to comfort the Prince then.

“The competition begins tomorrow,” Chaol told the girl, as they entered the shadow of the castle and Dorain wandered towards his GoodLady. “You’ll meet everyone then. Come on.”

He escorted her through the castle, not liking the way her eyes took everything in. Or, how when he showed her to her rooms, the first thing she did was prowl the suite with an experienced examination. He made note that she took in every window, every lack of weapon, as she moved from living/dining room to dressing room to bathing room to game room to bedroom. She stopped in the bedroom last, hands on narrow hips as she gazed at the place. “What’s wrong with this room, is there a hidden wall?”

“What?” There was nothing wrong with the room. It held a large four poster bed with curtains, which took up most of the space. There were two large windows looking out into a small courtyard. And a tapestry on the wall. It was a perfectly ordinary room.

“The dimension are off.” She shook her head, and he felt that sense of unease slip back into him as she dismissed the room. The dimensions _were_ a little off. He had a suite similar to hers, with the same lay-out. It should be identical, and it was, except the bedroom _was_ smaller, wasn’t it?

He watched her throw her cloak into the dressing room, then turned to him. “What now?”

Chaol wanted to see what she was made out of, but Dorian, apparently, was faster. A tailor came sweeping in, demanding to get the girl’s measurements and clothing styles, so Chaol gratefully slipped away so he could change the guard rotation and see what had happened while he was off on a fool’s errand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small explanation. I wanted Aelin/Rowan to be Elves, not Fae like Mass made them. I also wanted her to be a full blood elf, and Elves reach "puberty" around at the age of 150. So at 55, Aelin looks like a preeteen. I wanted this because it would explain more of Rowan's reluctance to mate with her (which would build the slow-build friendship of their relationship) and because it would make her freeing from Maeve more dramatic. Basically it would make it so she was tortured mentally for so long she was forced into "puberty" so she could finally look thirty/fourty something.


	5. A Certain Level of Perfection

# Elle

Elle felt like she sat for hours as the tailor pinned, measured, and poked her ready for court life. Then another few hours to be presented a vast array of fine fabrics of every color, texture, and consistency imaginable as he described this cut and that cut and this flare and that flare. Most of it went over her head, but she smiled as sweet as she could and nodded at all the right times, sending the poor man into an excited whirlwind of groundbreaking fashion.

None of it really mattered. Clothes were a costume. With the right clothes, a person could blend in any environment, no matter what they looked like. All Elle would have to do was add a bit of hair dye, a bit of makeup, maybe alter the way she acted—and walla. A fine Lady one minute, a serving girl the next, and then a pauper as she turned the corner to avoid the eye.

This man would trick everyone into thinking she was a Lady.

She’d been in the castle many, many times. Always sneaking around. But never as a Lady. Never moving in absolutely plain sight. The idea thrilled her.

Once the excited man left to go make dresses—giving her one that his assistant had altered to her measurements on the spot—servants came. Apparently, they didn’t think she could bathe, dress, or clean herself up. Elle tried shooing them away, but they were persistent.

Then she took off her dress, and they fled rather than confront her scars.

She would assume that scars would have the opposite effect. In the streets, scars signified strength. Resilience. Survival. She would flash them, and people would know not to trust anything they noticed about her but those scars. But everything was backwards with the gentry, especially the Adolin gentry, who seemed to see scars as weakness and trauma. 

In the end, she looked as she should, every inch the Lady prepared for her parties and court functions. Her hair was strung up with pearls and other fine jewels, with a single long curl trailing down over her shoulder. Her face was caked with cosmetics, and the khol gave her eyes the appearance of a solid pale-green color. Her dress—by unquestioning demand—was long-sleeved and had a high back, and the jewel-encrusted empire bodice actually showcased breasts. Breasts! She had breasts now!

“Your beautiful,” The older female servant, who was the only one willing to stay, named Philippe, sighed. Her wrinkled hand smoothed over Elle’s bare shoulders in a gentle sweep.

“It’ll do.” Elle winked at her over the mirror and turned so she wouldn’t have to look at herself and imagine the possibilities of long-gone futures of such dresses, and balls, and fine courts.

“You are… different from the other champions.” 

“Am I?” Elle asked, curious that this old woman knew about the other Champions. But court-gossip was impossible to ignore. Especially which prized servants. Elle pounced on the idea. “What are they like?”

“Oh. Dreadful, dearie.” The old woman flared out the gentle skirts. “Big, brutish, the usual sort of criminal.” Her hands stilled, and her eyes moved down to the sleeves that covered Elle’s most annoyingly obvious scars—the one’s from the shackles. “It’s important, however, to remember that the competition isn’t known to the others in the castle. You must keep it a secret.”

Elle hummed, for lack of anything nice to say. “Help me get out of this damn thing,” The dresses were ridiculously hard to put on and take off. Which required women - like Philippe - to help with. 

“What, why? You just got dressed!”

“Yes, but Chaol will come back eventually, and I need to train. I’ll need tunic and pants.” That and she was sick of seeing herself all prettied up like this. Elle moved to rip out all the pearly, jewel covered pins rested in her hair, letting all the hard-worked curls fall down her shoulders. “Can you get me some?”

Philippe’s mouth—which was more wrinkled lines then lips—thinned, but she helped when she realized Elle was about to rip off her dress. When there was nothing but the shift covering the scars, the old woman fled to go fetch better clothes, and Elle washed everything but the khol off her face. She liked the idea of her eyes being less… her eyes.

There was an instant comfort, having normal clothes on. They were of a good, fine quality, and she stretched in them as Philippe sat on the day bed and told her all about those big, brutish criminals.

* * *

Chaol came around after supper. She wore a cape—to cover her “abnormally masculine clothing” as Philippe called it—and tucked a hand on his arm as he held his sword pommel in his hand. If he felt off by having his reaction time slowed by her clinging, he didn’t show it.

“Is there really nothing else interesting to see?” She asked.

“What else is there to see? You’ve scouted the entire place—and don’t think I can’t guess you planning escape routes.”

Busted. She smiled up at him, hoping to distract him with a little feminine charm. “And you still let me wander, how sweet.”

“I know better than to trap you in a room. Better you out and about, seen and sneaking.”

She laughed, then stopped beside closed doors where lilting speech and music could be heard. “What’s in there, then?”

“Queen Georgina’s court.” He pulled her down the hall. Obviously, Elle wasn’t allowed inside the Queen’s famously elegant court. It was said that in Adolin, there were two ‘official’ courts: the court of love and parties, and the court of armies and execution. It was good to be invited to one, but never the other.

“And the young prince, is he at home?”

“Hollin is at school.”

“Good. I hear he’s a prick.” Dorian’s little brother was more than a prick, but a little monster in disguise. There had been a nasty rumor going around a year ago that Hollin had beaten his servant so badly there was no way to conceal it. The woman’s family had been paid off, then exiled. The boy himself was sent off to school while Queen Georgina mourned his loss from her side.

They walked on in companionable silence. She rather liked the old, stiff man. There was something charming about his gruffness, about how obviously he disliked her very presence.

Elle winced as an explosion sounded, then another. When she yelled to ask what that was, Chaol led her through garden gates and pointing. He had to wait for the timed explosions to end, then said, “The clock tower.”

The clock tower was a massive thing made of black stone. Four gargoyles stood top, wings spread for flight, perched on each of the four clock’s faces. “It’s evil.” Elle realized, flinching from the sight, from the feel of it. Like a black hole that threatened to take away the warmth of the summer night.

“As a child, I refused to go anywhere near it.” He said gruffly, obviously as affected as she was.

“You see something like this before the Gates of the Wyrd, not in a garden. How old is it? Why is it here?”

“King Halliviard had it build when Dorian was born. Why, I’ve no idea.” He turned her. “Let’s go.”

They walked around it, and Elle was a little surprised to see the small tile on the ground. “My my,” She tisked, letting her slipper move across the small engraved slate. It was a circle with a vertical line through the middle, which extended beyond the circumference. Both ends of the line were hooked, descending in different directions. As she looked back up the to the clock, she noticed a gargoyle was pointing right at it. And there was a gargoyle on each face, pointing. “How risqué.”

“What?” Chaol looked down, then up to the gargoyles. “What are you talking about?”

“This is a rune.” She said, tapping the stone, covering the symbol with her foot, as if that could erase the evil. “A symbol that directs the flow and intention of raw magic—earth magic, maybe. The tower must harness it.”

“That’s impossible. Magic has disappeared from Erilea, once all the Terran Elves were killed. And the King build this tower himself.” And the King, as everyone knew, was famously hateful of all things magic. He’d sent armies after the witches, throwing the Crochans out of their famous city so it would rot, and pushing all the different clans of Iron Teeth out into the Frost Back wilds. Then he’d gone after Terra.

“Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” She’d have to find the time to look at the other symbols without Chaol around and figure out what the tower was supposed to be channeling. Not that she would be able to feel it, anyway. There was no more magic _to_ feel.

Maybe the tower was nothing more than a hideous reminder of what used to be. But that answer didn’t sit right with Elle.

“Come on, old man. Let’s go.”

“Old man.” He scoffed. But he didn’t seem very upset by it.

They walked out of the garden, away from the menacing clock tower and into more marbled halls. Past kitchen quarters, with their shouting, spices, and surging fires. Into long hallways, empty and silent except for their footsteps. “What’s this, then?” Elle asked, pointing to the twenty-foot oak doors, which had dragons—not wyverns—depicted on both doors. “Is this a surviving door from Elena Galathynius’s time?”

“What?”

“You don’t know your own history?” She teased, stopping so she could admire the four-legged dragons shaved onto the old wood. Wyvern’s were the Havllard’s royal symbol, and even Chaol—now that he was wearing his official uniform—had it embroidered over his heart. The wyverns decorated most of the castle; on the stained glass, on the tapestries, painted on decorative vases, stamped into decorative armor, flapping away on golden flags. Dragons, though, were much rarer to see. Maybe because they were extinct.

She cleared her throat for dramatic effect. “A long, long, long time ago, in a country across the sea, an Elvish man named Brannon—”

“I know Erilea’s history.” Chaol grumbled. “I don’t need to be lectured by a child.”

She wasn’t a child, though, in fact she was older than he was. She’d been telling the truth when she claimed to be fifty-five. Still, she ignored him to continue her story. Like a child would.

“Brannon Galathynius waged war against the Three Elvish Queens, along side his best friend, who Brannon took his surname in honor of as he sailed to Erilea and built his Kingdom under the Fire Goddess’s love and protection. Many humans existed in Erilea, but Brannon brought over magic, and fae, and elves, and power—so the humans of Erilea freely gave Brannon the land where he built OaksHeart, the breathing, chattering forest.” A forest which was now half burnt and dead. “He built a castle in the middle of OaksHeart, and called it Terra, after the Fire Goddess he worshiped.

“Brannon, being an Elf, was very long-lived and had very little opportunity for siring a child, since Elves, as I’m sure you know, can only have children with their mates—”

She laughed as he gripped the bridge of his nose and started muttering for the Gods.

“He had only one child, Elena Galathynius. She was a warrior, like her father, and fierce. And after a few millennia when war threatened to take over the world again, she met her husband and mate, a human man. Named Adolin Havilliard.” Elle looked over at Chaol, whose face was pinched with frustration.

“They fought in the Second Great War together, side by side, and defeated the demons. And when they were done, Elena gave up her long life so she could age and die with her husband. As a mating gift, King Brannon gave them half his land, and his favorite Summer Castle,” Elle stomped her foot, to indicate the castle they were standing in, “Only Elena was a warrior, not a ruler, so her husband ruled in her stead. It was here that she and her husband lived their later years, sired a whole host of Hallvard children, and died.”

“Yes. I am well aware of the history of my Royal-House.” He snapped. “What does this have to do with dragons?”

“Well. Elena loved dragons.” Elle looked back to the doors. To look at the way the beasts were depicted in flight. There was something loving about the way they were carved—a great deal of care had been made to keep them elegant and fierce. “Her father was a fire-wielder. It was Brannon’s fire that saved him from the three Elvish Queens. And I think Elena saw her father’s power in them. She fought for the dragon's rights, their protection.” Elle laughed, “It’s ironic that her great-great-great-grandson was the one who slayed the last of them. And then decided that he was going to take the non-fire breathing _wyvern_ as the family symbol, instead of two entwined lovers. And his son killed the last of the wyverns.”

They stood in silence for a moment, admiring the doors and the strange twists and turns of history.

Finally, Chaol spoke. “You know… a lot.”

“An assassin can be educated.” She snipped. “Come on, let’s go in.” She pushed on the doors, which was surprisingly easy to open despite how heavy they were. Inside was a cavernous space filled with a bunch of books and scrolls. “The library? Really?” Fire breathing dragons decorated the doors of the _library_. Old dead Elena had a sense of humor.

“They say there’s a second library in here,” Elle said walking towards all the books. “It lies deep beneath, in the catacombs and tunnels, hidden by a magic doorway.”

She looked at the titles as she passed, recognizing next to none of them. She wasn’t much of a reader though, so she really wasn’t surprised. Sam had loved books and had filled up their apartment with shelves and shelves of them. Then, because he’d run out of room, he’d filled up the warehouse underneath the apartment with even more books. He’d tease her that they were just like Queen Elena and King Adolin—a mismatched warrior and her scholarly husband.

Thinking about Sam, though… she turned, to walk away from all the books. Away from the memory of him.

“You’ve got the coloring to be from Terran, did you ever visit the Great Library in Orynth?” She stilled between stacks as Chaol pried. So far, they had avoided any talk of personal history. “They say its twice the size of this one and has all the knowledge in the world.”

Elle didn’t know what it was. Talking about the past, being surrounded by books that Sam would have drooled over—she found herself wanting to give Chaol a real answer. There were many, many lies she could tell. The easiest one being ‘no’.

But she found herself opening her mouth—as her eyes drifted along the spines and the smell of something nostalgic and almost familiar surrounded her—and she told him the truth. “I was young when I visited. Before the Bloody Night—the Purge, as you call it. They wouldn’t let me explore, though, too many Master Scholars running about, saying I’d hurt all their precious books.” She’d ruined more than a few of them before they were forced to kick her out. “Ironic, I suppose. King Havilliard has undoubtably burned many of those books himself, since all the knowledge in the world tends to be about magic or the history of magic or the practice of magic or the existence of magic users.”

Maybe some of the books had been smuggled to safety, but the Great Library would never be as it was. Many, many things would never be as it was.

“Why is this place so empty?” She asked, changing the subject.

“Reading is a bit out of fashion, I’m afraid.” He said, fingering some of the books, hand still on his sword.

“Shame. Do you like to read?”

“I have very little time for it myself.” He heaved a heavy sigh. “Come on, we’ve wasted enough time. I need to see if you’ll make a fool out of the Prince.”

Elle liked being back on old footing with him. “Oh, my, we wouldn’t want to do that, would we?” She said, grabbing his arm again as he took her out to the gaming park. She taunted and teased and annoyed him the entire way, until he stopped abruptly in the middle of a closed set of hedges.

“Here?” She looked up to the skies. Immediately she saw the Father, shining bright above and pointing ever Eastward, towards OaksHeart.

“Here.” He stood a littleways away, and she watched him cross his massive arms. “Show me what you can do.”

“Ahhh… yes. Right.” And what should she do? Dance for him? She had no weapons. He did, though.

His hand wasn’t on the pommel anymore, either, not when his arms were crossed. Feigning confusion, she walked towards him. And when she was close enough, she lashed out and slid the long, heavy thing from the scabbard at his side. He tried to stop her, but she was prepared for that. Her knee found the tender spot between his wide-open legs and she danced away from his swinging paw-of-a-hand.

The sword was made for a man who had—well, tree trunk arms. Her own trembled as she held it in second defensive position. But she still held on. “Well? We done?” She teased. “Or do you want to be humiliated more?”

His face was red, his hands cupping himself as he glared at her. When he squinted like that, the lines around his eyes got thicker. “You wretched little thing.”

“Such flattery! Goodman Chaol! I don’t even have a chaperone with me, what will people say?”

He lunged for her, and she danced back, swinging the sword up and around as he overstretched so she could smack against his back with the horrendously broadside. “Come on, you can do it!”

And they went like that for a while, till her arms grew exhausted, and then well beyond that. He got a few good licks in—a kick to her outer thigh, an elbow to the back of her head, two or three punches into her ribs—but he was holding back. She could taste it in the way their dance was incomplete.

Dancing was like fighting, and fighting like fucking, and fucking like dancing. They were all the same. They required concentration and rhythm, a study of the partner, and were only truly good when there was no holding back or shame. He was doing only as he promised; testing her, feeling out her reflexes, her stamina, if she could take a punch or not.

In the end, like dancing and fucking, the fight left them panting, sweating, and exhausted—and unfulfilled.

He grabbed her arm in a tight grip, nearly throwing her into the hedges as he wrestled the sword out of her hands. She rolled into the throw, jumping back onto her feet, ready to go at him hand to hand—but he was shaking his head at her. “Enough. Enough!” He snarled, as she gave him a good roundhouse kick to the chest, just for fun. He stood crouched in the middle of the hedgerows, holding his chest, unable to breathe right for a minute.

When he could breathe again, he shook his head at her. “What are you made out of? Pure stone?”

Ha! She’d have to remember that one, in case anyone else asked why she was called The Stone. Grinning, she pulled her sweaty hair back up into the tie it had fallen out of. “No. I think I have a human body. Bones. Skin. That sort of thing.”

“Gods.” He arched backwards, popping his spine. “No. You’re made out of tiny, angry little demons.”

“Goodman Chaol,” He jerked his eyes up, heavy, furry eyebrows popping together in confusion at her flattered, coy tone. “Don’t be such a _tease_.”

“You could be the age of my daughter.” He snarled, so obviously disgusted that she nearly fell onto the grass as she laughed. He stood over her, obviously unimpressed, and it was so funny she farted—staring the side-splitting riot all over again. 

* * *

Chaol ended up escorting Elle back to her rooms, leaving her alone with nothing to keep her company but the thought of hitting a guard over the head and escaping. She stood outside for a while, on the balcony, looking at them. They have heavy crossbows on their backs, which was a very big mistake, on their part. They were heavy things, and not very easy to lift out of their harness. She could be done with the both of them before rushing out of the courtyard, into the side hall of the southern wing that housed a grand and empty ballroom, through the game park, and over the wall before any would be the wiser.

Still, she was here of her own volition. The Prince had made it very clear that she—the innocent assassin apprentice—could leave whenever she felt the desire to. And she had no desire to.

Elle ended up taking a bath to wash away the sweat. And as her hair dried down her bare back, she moved to the pianoforte in the game room. It had been a long time since she’d played, but her childhood had commanded a certain level of… perfection in all things. Her Master had taught her everything—the finer aspects of seduction, stalking, courting, poisoning, sneaking, murder, and political intrigue—with the single-minded determination that she be the _best_ at it. Flawless, in fact.

Her Master had been very particular about the pianoforte, too. She’d sit for hours in front of him, in a fine dress just like she’d worn earlier today, playing for him and only him. And he’d sit in the dark, listening. Sometimes singing, if the mood struck him. If she made a mistake, he’d break a bone or two—something inconsequential, like a nose or a toe—so that she did better next time. And no matter if he broke something or not, he’d always drag her to the floor, rip off her pretty dress, and take her. It was her Master that had shown her how _precisely_ fighting was like fucking. Because he did both in the same furious way.

It had been years since she’d sat down on the bench. Yet her fingers remembered the placement, the timing, the elegance. Just like her body remembered the way to deliver violence with little thought. She was, after all, trained by the best.

Her Master was out there, in Rifthold. Busy greasing the right palms, bloodying the right bodies, seducing the right women, training the right assassins. No doubt he’d heard by now where Elle was. That she was now, mysteriously, working for the Prince in the Castle under mysterious circumstances.

What would he think? What would he do?

Here, maybe, she was safe. Maybe. All she knew for sure was that he had been aware the second she escaped the Endovier slave-mines. And had been aware when she came back to Rifthold. He hadn’t reached out to her, though. Not when her temper was still hot, and her body weak. Not after what he’d done to Sam.

In another life, Elle might have thought of his distance as a kindness, but she knew the truth: he didn’t want to break his favorite toy.

Someday, Elle would kill her Master. Someday. But today was not that day. The murder of her Master demanded a certain level of… perfection.


	6. The Consequences

# Dorian Havllard

Dorian was finally granted an audience with the King after a few hours spend in Lady Jasamin’s bed. He stared at his father, waiting for the man to acknowledge him to speak. He sat on his throne—a ridiculous sign of strength, since the Plan Room in the back was much more comfortable—and listened to his advisor’s whisper in his ear.

They looked nothing alike, a thing that Dorian was unbelievably conscious of every time they were in a room together. Dorian looked sort of like his mother, he supposed, but there were always the rumors. Rumors that Dorian wasn’t actually King Havllard’s son, his heir.

Finally, the King dismissed his advisors and spoke to Dorian. “She has arrived?” His voice was hard, dull, lacking life. As a greeting, it was probably one of the most civil Dorian had ever received from his father since he was seven or eight.

“No, Sire, I was unable to procure the Stone Assassin.” Dorian rose from his deep bow. “Her reclusiveness is legendary, and apparently consistent. She sent her apprentice along, instead.” Like Chaol, Dorian knew his father would be happy about that. The King hadn’t appreciated the idea of The Stone in his castle, but hadn’t protested Dorian’s choice, either. Dorian was a gambling man, and he knew his father was one too.

And Dorian was desperate to have his contestant to win the Championship, so he could receive that boon and delay his ever-looming marriage date. Nothing but the best would do. Which made having the tiny assassin apprentice disappointingly bitter.

“Really? An apprentice?” The King’s eyes narrowed. His voice echoed harshly across the throne room. “I have heard of the girl you were seen coming in with, the little Terran thing. She is the apprentice?”

“Aye, Sire, she is.”

“Then you are a fool.”

Dorian felt a certain coldness enter his chest, but he kept still, and he didn’t let anything show on his face. It was important to never show fear to his King, who pounced on any weakness. “Sire?”

“That girl was the Stone Assassin.”

No. Impossible. “She is a girl.” Dorian insisted.

“You’ve been enchanted by that face of hers, then.” Dorian felt himself grow stiff. “Every fool she has ever murdered think of her as no threat to _them_ , because she is a child. Remember, Dorian, the poisonous ones have the prettiest packages.”

 _Then why are you not handsome?_ Dorian didn’t let an inch of his dislike show in his face, his posture, his tone. He rolled with it. If his father honestly believed the girl was The Stone, then by all means, in this room she was The Stone. “Which is why she’ll win the competition,” Dorian said, smiling, pretending at ease. “Come to think of it, with her here, the whole competition is unnecessary.”

“Mind your tongue or I’ll have her use you for practice.”

“And then what? Have Hollin take the throne?” His younger brother was a menace, a cruel, sadistic boy.

“Don’t doubt me, Dorian.” His father shifted, looking at the papers left for him by advisors. “You might think this… girl can win, but you forget that Duke Parrington is sponsoring Cain. You would have been better picking a Champion like him—a warrior of the battlefield. A true Champion.”

Dorian shrugged. “If you want a warrior of the battlefield, why make your Champion a criminal at all? Why not one of the war heroes? Aedion, I know, is particularly ruthless.” The bastard had been making trouble up in the north with his army, the Bane, for years, sabotaging any rebellions against the throne with single-minded ruthlessness.

“Aedion is a Terran, and one of the only living royal Ashryver left alive in my Kingdom. While he is undoubtedly loyal, and savage, so I have other plans for him. I want something more from my Champion while we wage war with Wendlyn and the Elves. Who better to serve me than someone utterly grateful at being granted freedom by my hand, and the wealth and power of my name?” He studied Dorian. “Parrington tells me you behaved well recently, with your women.”

With Parrington as a watchdog, Dorian couldn’t do anything else but behave. He said nothing, though, knowing his father’s temper.

“I’ll not have more women wailing at the gates, screaming that you’ve broken her heart and filled her with yet another child.” Dorian’s felt his face color, but he didn’t do anything, not while his father was staring at him so intensely. “I’ve toiled too hard and long to establish my empire; you won’t complicate my lineage with illegitimate heirs.” A thing he’s said time and time again, as he had men slaughter his way through Dorian’s bedmates. “Mary a proper woman immediately, then dally as you will after she has a son or two. When you are King, you will understand the consequences.”

 _When I am King, I won’t declare control over Terran and Ellyew and every other country in and out of Erilea with war_. _I will let the world be at peace_. But Dorian said nothing. He just bowed, then turned to leave. He stopped, though, as his father called after him. “You will stay away from the assassin girl’s bed, Dorian. Am I understood?”

He turned, a little baffled. She was a beautiful girl, undoubtedly, but she was also too _young_. There was no way she was only four years younger than him, like she’d first claimed.

His confusion loosened his tongue. “And if I condescended to bed her, what would you do, father? Hire her to slaughter our illegitimate heir?”

His father was on him before Dorian could brace himself. The back of the King’s hand connected with Dorian’s cheek, and Dorian staggered backwards. His face throbbed. He could feel the hot heat of blood on his cheek from his father’s rings. He couldn’t keep his eyes from watering, but he could force himself to stand up straight.

“Son or no,” The King snarled, grabbing the back of Dorian's head, forcing him to look into dead, flat black eyes. “I am still your King and you will obey me, Dorian Havilliard, or you will pay the price. I’ll have no more of your questioning. No more on the subject of the assassin’s heirs, or yours.”

Dorian was released. He made sure to bow, before leaving the throne room.

He’d go clean up his cheek, then find Chaol. See how his little “Stone Assassin” fared.


	7. The ClockTower

# Elle

Elle woke to a bombing.

She rolled out of bed, looking for the source of the explosions—which were oddly rhythmic. And timed. There were twelve of them.

No screaming. No burning. No one freaking it.

It had been the blasted clock tower.

Hissing, she got up, looking out the window to the courtyard beyond. From here, she could just barley see the elbow of one of her guards. _He_ wasn’t freaking out. Blasted man with his blasted crossbow.

It was noon, though. Wasn’t it the first day of her challenge? Shouldn’t she be out of bed, fighting off other competitors to show her worth? She had expected Chaol to come in and wake her near dawn, pissy about one thing or the other, but he wasn’t.

Elle walked out to her balcony, enjoying the warm summer breeze that hadn’t turned suffocating hot yet, since it was only noon. Maybe she had it wrong. Maybe today wasn’t the day. Or maybe the competition was a farce, and they were luring her into a false sense of security before shackling her and dragging her back to enslavement.

No. The King would just probably kill her. He didn’t have her Master’s flare for style.

The guards on either side of her balcony gave her withering glare but didn’t even bother to raise their heavy crossbows at her. Either they all thought she wasn’t a threat, or the bolts were too heavy to raise without need. Either way, getting past them would be child’s play.

The guards didn’t even glare for long. Their attention—like a moth to flame—was drawn to a group of women walking near the fountain, clustered in conversation. It was obvious that it was a lady and her two attendants, since one wore a fine, gorgeous red gown, and the other homespun dresses of some silky material. The Lady was the prettiest of them, too, with shining black hair all coiled up on her head, milk-white skin, and breasts ready to pop out of her corset. She was also, being a Lady, completely unaware of her audience and loud enough for the slums at the edge of Rifthold to hear her.

“I should have worn the white dress,” She hissed hotly. “Dorian likes white.” She reached up, under the pillowy mounds of flesh, to straighten the corset. Or more like wiggle back into it. “I’ll wager that everyone is wearing red today.”

“Shall we go change, milady?” One of the ladies asked. So, the pretty blond was just the daughter of a minor someone. She’d have to marry up the food-chain to be a GoodLady.

“No!” The girl snapped. “This dress is fine. Old and shabby as it is, it is fine.” The dress was finely made and looked brand new.

“But—” She stopped speaking as her mistress’s head whipped around.

“It won’t take long for Dorian to ask me for a private audience.” The pretty girl boasted. She was twenty-four, possibly twenty-six. Too young for Dorian, who was about to celebrate his eighteenth birthday this year. But Adolin gentry had odd marriage customs and age, love, and other such things didn't matter in the face of money and titles.

The servant women nodded their acceptance, obviously not looking for a fight.

The girl tapped her red lips. “I wonder who she is.”

“Who, milady?”

“You daft woman! The girl the Prince has brought to Rifthold. I hear he sent a letter to grab her and picked her up outside of the castle walls. I’ve heard nothing else about her, not even her name, though I have heard she is disgustingly beautiful.” She huffed, flattening then fluffing her skirts in an anxious rhythm. “I don’t need to worry, though,” The pretty girl declared. “The Prince’s harlot won’t be well-received.”

Ah, the joys of the rich and idle. “Good to know, Lady.” Elle called. Three heads turned to look at her, and three pairs of eyes gawked as Elle stood on her balcony with nothing but a loose night-dress on. It rippled against Elle’s frame in the wind. "I’ll be sure to care about my properly introduce myself when I’ve finally gotten out of bed.” Elle wink at the pretty girl, whose face was now as red as her gown.

Let the rumors begin, Elle though, walking back into her suite.

* * *

The throne room was undecorated, unpolished, and austere. There were chandeliers hanging from the center of the ceiling in neat rows, yes, but there was no light for them to shine in. Instead, massive fires roared in the four corners of the massive room, casting deep shadows and flickering lights on white-veined red marble. And a black stone throne.

She’d never been inside before, but the room had featured heavily in some of her nightmares. She was glad, now, to have a real image to put in those nightmares as Chaol and her hurried past groups of men to stop before the dais. Still breathing a little heavily, Elle curtsied when Chaol bowed, and didn’t rise until the deep, cold voice told them to.

Then, without looking up, Elle followed Chaol to step to the left of the dais. Where Dorian stood waiting. Looking at him—Gods! It was eerie, how physical a reaction she could get at the sight of him. He was just so fucking good looking. It helped that he was looking at her the way a man does, when he undresses a lover.

A strange look crossed Dorian’s face as he grabbed Elle and tucked her hand gently into the crook of his elbow. As if she was his Lady, not his chosen fake-champion.

The King spoke. “Now that you’ve all finally bothered to show up, perhaps we can begin.” Elle peeked through her darkened lashed towards him. She couldn’t help herself. She had to know if he looked like she remembered. He was darker skinned than Dorian, from the sun, rather than from birth, and he had average middle-aged features and a long, light hair pulled into a lazy tail behind the nape of his neck. He was her own age, fifty, maybe sixty, but as a human, he wore his age with wrinkles and greying hair. 

Other than the age, he did look different. In her mind, she remembered the King as... cunning and cruel. A dark, shadowy master with hands of blood. This man on the dais was average, maybe even a little ugly, cold and indifferent. 

At his side, on a pillow, lay his unadorned sword. Nothung. It was said that sword had cut the head off the last King of Terra. If it had, it was done posthumously.

“You have all been retrieved from across Erilea for the purpose of serving your country,” The King said. My attention was drawn then, to the others in the room. It was easy enough to separate the sponsors from the competitors, and the competitors from their trainers. The sponsors were all rich. The trainers all soldierly, wearing the wyvern insignia over their chests, and the twenty-three other men were all familiar looking. They kind of men she’d been fighting and living with for most of her life.

Most had enough bulk to overshadow most men, much less Elle. She scanned their faces and saw different mixes of races, nationalities, and harshness. As she looked though, most were dull, chosen for their muscles or skills rather than any inkling of intelligence they might hold. Three, even, were still in chains, and reeked of the dungeon. Either because their sponsors were inept fools, or because they were that dangerous. Yet no one could be that dangerous while mistreated.

She liked the look of the moderately thin man standing across from her. He held his weight well, his center of balance naturally held to expect a hit without being obvious. He met her eyes, and there wasn’t anything but a gentle interest in his face. Elle liked him. Maybe because he was the only other Terran in the room. He smiled politely, before turning away.

The gargantuan standing next to Duke Parrington—the younger brother of a previous mark, now dead five or so years—was hard to miss. Or ignore. He was crafted purely out of muscles and steel, looking very… appropriate in his sleeveless armor. Elle was a bit surprised that he mildly handsome. He was looking at her, and when his eyes swept up and down her body, before looking into hers…

There was something obsidian about his dark gaze. Something clever about the way he bared his teeth to smile. He might have the body of a trained soldier, a warrior, but he was a killer. Deep into his core.

The King spoke. “You all know why you're here. You're competing to be my Champion. If you have further questions about what that means, I suggest you talk to your sponsors.

“The week after the Summer Ball, the four remaining Champions will face each other in a duel to win the title. Until then, while my court is aware of some sort of contest, none know the purpose. You will keep it a secret, any wrongdoing on your part to expose your purpose here will be met with swift retribution.”

Elle looked up at him again out of impulse. She found his black gaze on her.

He was a murderer. Of people, innocents, knowledge, cultures, and families. He’d done so much to the world to destroy it. And he was holding her gaze.

She should look away. She should cower. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

“And you.” He pointed to Elle, signaling her out more, “Will be especially careful of my wishes, _yirli.”_

The Terran word for girl fell off his tongue with surprising ease, and Elle hated that he used it so easily. That he _dared_ , after what he had done to Elle’s home country. And there was a pause, after his words, where she was expected to answer, to do something. She wanted to spit at his feet. She wanted to march over there and punch his face in. She did not.

Her body bent into a curtsy. She held it until he started speaking again.

“This should be an interesting thirteen weeks.” He hissed. “Prove trustworthy, become my Champion, and wealth and glory will be yours eternal. I am to depart for my own purposes, I will not return till the Summer Ball.” Oh, thank the Gods for that. “But don’t think I won’t be able to give the command to execute you, should I hear of any troubles.”

Unlike the other champions and sponsors, who all stayed to speak with one another and mingle, Chaol and Dorian led Elle right outside of the throne room the second it was deemed polite to do so. Every step away from the King was a blessing, and warmth returned to her limbs as they walked down the hall and rounded a corner. The second they did, Chaol released a huge breath and removed his hand from her upper back. “Well, you managed to keep your mouth shut.” He said.

“Your bowing and scrapping was rather convincing, as well.” Dorian said as they rounded the next corner. “I’d no idea you could be so polite.

“What are you doing?” Chaol demanded.

Dorian shrugged. “Why, walking with you, of course.”

“We’re to dine together this evening.”

“I was speaking to my Champion.” Dorian smiled, and Elle’s chest did a strange flutter at the sight of it. Dorian moved to step aside, then kept pace beside Chaol as they all made their way down the hall at a sedated pace. “I apologize for the King’s—gruffness.” He said. Servants walked by, bowing and curtsying, and he seemed oblivious to them. “By the Wyrd, though, you look stunning today, Elle.”

She rolled her eyes at the thrill his words gave her. “I aim to please, Your Highness.”

He nodded, looking tense all of a sudden, as if the cold indifference could just be… slipped right off. Elle wondered how easy it would be, to be a good person under all the pretended cynicism. “Tell me, what did you make of Cain?”

Elle knew who he was talking about, there was only one man who truly stood out amongst the competitors. “Perhaps you should start feeding me whatever Parrington is giving him. I’ll bulk right up—hey, I might even be Chaol’s size!”

“No, truly.” He said, his blue eyes depthless. “If you don’t feel up to the challenge, then at any time you can—”

She cut him off. “Men of his size usually aren’t very fast or nimble. He could knock me out in one punch, maybe, but he’d have to catch me. That and he’ll be rather used to winning, it’ll make him sloppy.” She looked to Chaol, wondering if he’d contradict her. He didn’t. He hardly seemed to be paying attention.

“Good.” Dorian was still frowning, though. “Again, don’t be afraid to mention anything. No one will judge you for backing out.” He didn’t seem to understand that _Elle_ would judge herself for backing out without truly tasting fruitless defeat. “And what of the others? Any potential rivals? Some of the Champions have a rather gruesome reputation.”

She shrugged. “Couldn’t say.” Looks, of course, were deceiving.

Dorian nodded. “Chaol will inform me if they trouble you any.”

“She can handle herself.” Chaol said.

“Yes, that’s right,” A soft, happy smile spread over the Prince’s face, making her heart gallop hard in her chest. “I heard you’re rather talented. Maybe your Mistress _was_ wrong about you, Elle.”

She flung a wave of hair over her shoulder. “Of course she was.” She looked to the girl hiding behind the next corner. It was the same one from the garden this afternoon, the pretty blond. Only now, she wore a sparkling white and pearl gown. Dorian started speaking and seemed oblivious to her. He nearly bowled her over as Chaol and Elle stopped.

“Your Highness!” She said in a breathless voice. “What a surprise!” She was even more beautiful in person, her bone structure set in such a way that elevated her from merely pretty to stunning.

“Oh, Lady Kaltain.” Dorian seemed genuinely surprised as he gave her a gentle bow of the head. He had transformed again, altering subtle things in his posture and face to turn him confident and flirtatious in a matter of seconds. “How silly of me, not to see such a beautiful woman standing here.”

“Oh, your too kind, Your Highness.” She rose, chin held high, full red lips a sharp color on her pale frame. “I’ve just come from Her Majesty’s side.” She moved, putting her back to Elle. She was totally exposed. Elle would have to remember that next time she got a female mark. She’d just have to flirt with their man and they’d purposefully expose themselves as they saw the threat coming from the wrong direction. “

Her Majesty wishes to see Your Highness. Of course, I informed Her Majesty that Your Highness was in a meeting and not to be disturbed—”

“Evil Gods curse me.” Elle muttered. All the bowing and scrapping seemed a little redundant. “Gentleman, good day.” She moved to walk away, but Chaol latched onto her arm, keeping her with them.

“Lady Kaltain,” Dorian said. “I’m afraid you haven’t been introduced to my absolutely impolite friend,” The girl bristled only slightly. “Allow me to present the Lady Elle Lillian. Lady Lillian, meet lady Kaltain Rompier.” Kaltain gave a beautiful curtsey. “Lady Lillian is from Bellhaven, she just arrived the other day.”

“Fine jewels.” Elle deadpanned, looking at her glittering neck.

“Thank you, they’ve been in my family for generations. And how long will you be staying with us?” Kaltain asked, looking between Elle and the Prince.

“Only a few years.” Dorian said, offering a genuine sounding sigh.

“Only! Why, Your Highness! How droll! This is a very long stretch of time to be away from home!”

Kaltain caught the glances the two men exchanged each other. “The Lady Lillian and Captain Westfall are very close companions,” Dorian said dramatically. Next to Elle, Chaol stiffened. “It will feel short for them, I assure you.”

“You two are courting?”

“Gods no. He’s a friend of my fathers and has become family.” Elle said.

“I see. And for you, Your Highness?” Kaltain asked coyly. There was an edge beneath her voice, a darkness that confused Elle. Was Kaltain really that hungry for the power of the crown?

Elle understood, a second later, as Dorian gave her a smile. It wasn’t just any smile, but the kind a man gives when he’s in love. The kind Sam would give, when they were alone together, tangled up the sheets. It was truly masterful because it shared lust with affection. The sight of it made something in Elle ache, deep, deep inside of her.

She had almost forgotten what it was like, to be looked at like that, but seeing it brought all the memories flooding up, along with the secure knowledge that Sam would never be looking at her like that again.

“Lady Kaltain, you know I only have eyes for you.” He reached over, touching her cheek with his thumb for the barest of seconds as her cheeks flamed up brightly.

Kaltain nodded, then looked at Elle sideways with a smug sort of expression that was downright adorable. “Lady Lillian, wherever did you find that dress?” She asked. “It’s astounding.” She reached forward to touch Elle’s hand. As flesh met, Elle realized it had been a long while since she’d found pleasure in a woman’s body. Maybe too long. “I would love to know your seamstress.”

“Oh, I had my personal tailor sent to her for some dresses,” Dorian said flippantly, crashing the warm glow of emotion Kaltain was riding on. “It does look extraordinary on her, doesn’t it?”

Kaltain’s lips pursed. “Simply stunning.” Her voice was not scathing, but her eyes were. Elle missed the light in them, the soft joy.

“Well, I’ve dallied enough. I must attend to my mother.” He bowed to Kaltain, then to Chaol. When he faced Elle, for some reason, he grabbed at her hand, thumb rubbing over old scars and newer scrapes before he pressed a warm, dry kiss to it. “Until our next meeting, Lady Lillian.”

Elle didn’t bother curtsying, she just nodded, flicking her hand so his lips lifting off her skin. “Good day.”

Chaol took up the position of consolidating Kaltain as Dorian left. “We need to be on our way as well, may we escort you anywhere?” It seemed a sincere offer.

“No.” Her voice was flat. “Thank you. I’m meeting with His Grace, Duke Parrington, shortly. I do hope we see more of each other, Lady Lillian.” And she said it like there was a threat there, between the two of them. Maybe, in her world, there was. The world of pretty dresses and shameless Princes whose affections could be won over seemed like a very… troubling world compared the one of fists and knives and blood. “We must be friends, you and I.” She said.

Elle nodded. “Of course. Chaol.” Elle put her hand on Chaol’s offered up arm and walked with him down the hall. Once they were out of hearing range, she shook her head. “Is he always like that, playing with them?”

“What?” Chaol frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean the way he played with Lady Kaltain, it was cruel.”

“I don’t follow.” He was guileless, too. Elle could see it in his eyes. “Don’t pity Lady Kaltain. She is a viper in the nest, just looking for a way to elevate herself in society.”

That was true, Elle couldn’t deny it… maybe she was reading too much into their interaction. The flirtations, the pointed talk of favoring another woman, it had seemed second nature to Dorian, as natural as breathing. Maybe it was unconscious. Maybe Elle was just projecting because of that smile. She shook her head to rid her thought of Sam out of her head. “I don’t pity her. I respect her, in a way.”

“You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not. She wants things: glory, power, wealth. And she’s not afraid to let her ambitions show. I don’t see anything wrong with it in the slightest. Too many Lords and Ladies have had things handed to them their entire life, and don’t know what it’s like to reach out and take something that they want. I also admire how refreshingly… bitchy she is.” Elle grinned at him, at his affronted face.

They were silent for the rest of the walk, though he was kind enough to take her the long way to her rooms. When they got to the door, he looked to his guards while speaking to her. “I have important work to do. Like prepare a company of men for the King to bring with him on his journey.”

“Oh, fuck off. I’m great company when it comes to planning things and work and all that. I inevitably distract—which is what everyone should experience while working.” She motioned for him to come down to her. The confusion on his face was as delightful as she gave him a friendly peck on the cheek. “Goodnight then, old man.”

The freckle on his cheek twitched. “Rest up, the competition officially begins tomorrow.”

As if it had been calling her the entire day, she found herself sitting at the pianoforte’s bench again. She lost herself in uncomplicated, unplanned melodies that took her where they wanted.


	8. Sam I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the POV is Elle's  
> And it's in the past, when Sam was still alive.

“Thank you so much, sir, for this opportunity.” A boy said. He sounded eager. Excited.

Poor thing didn’t know what he was getting into.

Elle walked casually to the receiving room and leaned against the doorjamb as Arobyn Hammel met his new disciple. He hadn’t picked the boy off the streets—he was too clean, too well mannered for that— which was odd, but not that uncommon. Her Master has a soft spot for broken things, so there had to be something wrong with the boy—it just wasn’t degrading poverty.

Her Master stood, tall, elegant, controlled. His hands resting in his pants pockets as his eyes roamed over the frame of the boy in front of him, who’s back was to Elle. All she could see of the boy was a sloppy head of brown hair and Adolin white skin.

“You will call me Master, while you are in this Guild. But,” her Master raised his long, callused finger. “You have not officially been invited yet.”

“I… I haven’t?” The boy seemed confused.

“No. There are tests you must pass, first. Ways you must prove yourself. Not to me, for my time is too valuable to deal and train every new member. No, you will have to prove yourself to a far more discerning eye.” Her Master’s green eyes flared as they flicked over the boy’s short head to look at her. “And she is a very hard person to please.”

She was smirking, when the boy spun around. If he hadn’t heard her coming up, she’d have a lot of work to do, training him. She looked into warm, chocolate brown eyes on an uncomplicated face. He was maybe 16 but there was something… young about him. Something eager. She’d break it, by the time she was through. Break it, or him.

“Hello there.” She put the right amount of purr in her voice.

“Hi.” He didn’t blush, but there was a kind of rapture on his face that was just as satisfying.

Master’s hand landed heavy on his shoulder, squeezing tightly. “This is my second in command. The only person I trust here, in this Guild, to do what I have no time for. Her name is Elle, but you may know her by another name. The Stone.”

Elle never did get over the way people freaked out when they heard that ridiculous nickname. It was worth all the grief she got from her Master about leaving a calling card and creating a reputation. She soaked up the new attention the boy gave her. Soaked up admiration, the jealousy that had mixed inexorably with the attraction.

She pushed off the doorjamb and put a little sway to her hips. She was still wearing her favorite sneak-suit, since she’d just come back to the Guild after a night of observing a mark. It was skintight, but the pockets gave padding to what little curves she had. It didn’t matter, anyway. She’d been told by her Master that her attraction didn’t need curves—just her. Her attitude. Her presence. It was womanly enough. And he had taught her how to use it well.

Her Master stepped back, so she could circle around the boy like a shark circles a new, delicious meal. “And you would be…?”

“Sam. I’m Sam.” He stiffened, when she was behind him. Didn’t turn to keep her in his line of sight. That was a mistake, so she struck out, grabbing his hair as the soft, triple-leather soles of her shoes sank into the back of one of his knees. He toppled forward under the control of her hand but didn’t make a sound. 

She leaned down over him, making sure to give her Master a good view of her ass as she breathed into the boy’s ear. “Lesson one, pledge. Never keep your eyes off the enemy.”

And to prove it, her Master’s hand slid slowly down her backside.


	9. Mines of Salt, Princess of Rebels

# Elle

A hand touched her. She found herself rolling, getting onto her knees as she grabbed the hand, using it to leverage herself forward. Her knee slammed into flesh, she heard a grunt as the body fell backwards. Big, male, dangerous. She kept her grip, twisted as she fell with him, knees sinking into soft flesh. She raised her fist to strike—

But it was Chaol, under her. Wheezing as her knees, with all her weight behind it, dug into his stomach. Her hand twisted his wrist to a near breaking point, so his fingers were bloodless in her grip.

Elle gathered her breath but didn’t get up or remove her hold on him as his face twisted in pain. “Next time, poke me with a stick to wake me up.” She moved gingerly, so she wouldn’t hurt him anymore as she got up onto her feet.

She offered him a hand, but he ignored it, manly pride being what it was. “Oh—do I smell breakfast?” While he was still trying to stand, she wandered over into the sitting room, where a fine spread of breakfast lay on the table.

Philippe was still setting plates down, too. Pile and piles of different kinds of roots and soups and eggs and cheeses and breads. “Mmmm—yes yes yes.” She grabbed the old lady, kissing her on a sagging cheek. “Thank you!” And then she was throwing herself down with all of the grace of a bear, tearing her way through the food.

“You’re… a morning person?” Chaol asked, as he came in from her bedroom. He was still rubbing his wrist.

“Aye.” She muttered around some food. It was close enough to the truth. She didn’t especially love _mornings_ themselves, but she loved the first few hours immediately after waking up.

She only stopped to breathe and to feel the satisfying fullness of a good breakfast filling her stomach. Philippe watched it all with a tired sort of look, munching on her own, smaller breakfast of bacon and flat-cakes. She’d seen it all before, through previous lunches and dinner. Chaol, though, was new to the show. He watched with undisguised horror. So she flashed him a bit of food, chewed up into mush on her tongue.

“Get dressed when your… done.” He said, dishing out his own plate. “Where is all the meat?”

“I was unaware you’d be here, my Goodman.” Philippe said, flashing her own small strips of bacon. “Or else I would have brought more.”

“Don’t eat meat,” Elle explained, shoving more food down her throat, then nearly choking because talking and swallowing at the same time was a talent she’d never mastered. She grabbed some honeyed and wine to swallow it down.

“Why?” Elle looked over at him. “It’s not a Terran custom, there are plenty there who eat meat.”

“Not me.” The second she stopped shoving food down her face, she realized she was overstuffed. She belched, to let out some of the air, pounding her fist on her chest—

Chaol reached forward, grabbing her hand. He looked down at her wrist where her sleeves had fallen down with more unconcealed horror. “What in the Wyrd happened to your wrist?”

“I’ve been asking that since I saw them myself, my Lord.” Philippe joined in. She was a regular member of the choir, Elle’s attendant.

“They look like… manacle scars?” Elle could understand the confusion. Most shackles rarely left scars that weren’t thin and depressed into the skin. But the scars Elle had were molten, twisting and rising in ugly, thick patterns that rose and fell like craterous valleys. But then, most people who wore shackles gave up on yanking and moving them long before scars could form. Because most people who wore shackles weren’t required to do heavy labor with them on and didn’t have constantly opening and closing wounds rubbed with salt.

The only people in the world who shared these scars with Elle were usually buried in mass graves in Endovier’s salt mines, where they’d been worked to death. So Chaol’s confusion wasn’t surprising at all. 

She shook her hand out of Chaol’s grasp. “I’ll go get dressed.” She chirped, rushing to the dressing room. Philippe didn’t bother helping. Not with a loose tunic and pants. She did, however, stand up as Elle came back into the room to properly secure her hair on top of head, so it didn’t all slide out. Elle stood patiently still as her hair was pulled into a tight, effective braid and then wound round and round the crown of her skull—before following Chaol out of the apartment.

“So, how are you today, my angry friend?” She asked.

He wasn’t having it, though. “What happened, with your wrists?”

“Well, they put these metal things on them. No idea what for, since I'm an upstanding citizen—”

“Elle. I’m serious.” They rushed quickly out of the castle and into the courtyard her balcony overlooked, heading towards a section of the castle that hadn’t been in the tours. “What happened?”

“Things. Life.” She shrugged. At least he hadn’t seen her back. Those scars had really freaked the other ladies-in-waiting out, so much so that only Philippe remained. “It happens.”

“No. It doesn’t.” He was frowning heavily as they made their way to a large building offset from the castle. It turned out to be the soldier’s barracks. They passed guards coming in from their shifts and guards just waking up. Passed open doorways revealing sleeping quarters and mess halls and small weapons rooms, all filled to the brim with short-haired soldiers with wyvern insignias.

There destination was on the top floor and seemed to encompass the entire building as one massive room. The stone floor was only broken up by support pillars to keep the low ceiling upright. And along all the walls, below the shallow balcony that held guards upon guards upon more guards with loaded crossbows and ready bows—were weapons. And armor. And padding.

A lot of competitors were already in the room, standing with their trainers. She noticed Cain immediately, if only for his size—he was bigger than Chaol, somehow—but she did catch the grey gaze of the thin, lanky Terran again. He nodded to her with half a smile, before returning to where he was firing arrows at a target forty feet away.

Elle didn’t care about Cain, or the other Terran, or even the guards watching them. “Oh, please tell me I get to use a mace on you.” She said, eagerly heading over to the weapons racks. It was outfitted as well as the training room in the Assassins Keep, and her fingers ran over unadorned but well-made swords, sword-breakers, axes, bows, pikes, hunting daggers, maces, spears, throwing knives, wood staves, and short swords. She was familiar with all of them, knew how to hold them, swing them, use them to break and tear.

A presence made her turn, and she watched as Cain came close to her. Close enough to punch, close enough that she could smell he already reeked of clean sweat. His thick lips parted into a charming grin, but there was something dead and troubled about his black eyes as he reached over her head to grab a sword from the rack, hitting her with a stronger wave of sweat.

“Morning, doll.” He had a low, raspy voice. And as she looked at him, she noticed his scars. The way he held himself. All of it matched that dead black look in his eyes as he greedily took in Elle’s body. Not with lust, but with the kind of sure-confidence that comes with knowing you’re bigger, stronger, and meaner. “I thought you’d be running home by now.”

“Now why would I do that?” Elle asked. She barely came up to his pecks, and the size of him nearly blocked out the lights coming from the windows. She wondered, absently, if he’d be good in the sack. It had been a few days since she’d had sex, and she couldn’t imagine going thirteen weeks without it.

He was about to reply when Chaol stepped up. He was an inch shorter and about 50 pounds of muscle thinner. “Go train, Cain.”

Cain gave her one last, lingering look before going to his trainer. “And you.” Chaol turned to her, but only sighed at the grin on her face. “Let’s see if you can actually back up that swagger.” With a jerk of his chin, he grabbed a saber and walked away.

Elle wasn’t a fighter. She _could_ fight, and could fight well, but it wasn’t where her skillset was strongest. She’d never survive if she pretended otherwise. But… she looked behind her, to where Chaol was warming up, holding the saber and going through basic motions slowly. But she could learn. She could use the time here to train her body for more than just sneaking, and scaling, and being the bright flash of a knife in the night.

She turned back to the weapons, considering them with a new eye. She could grab one of the swords. There had to be one in the racks with a light enough weight not to exhaust her within moments, but heavy enough to train her arms. But she just didn’t like swords. They were cumbersome, heavy, and got in the way when and when they weren’t being used. Having them hanging at the hip was a liability and a bitch, when it came time to sit down. And using them in any place that wasn’t filled with enough space to swing was dangerous. Which is why, when Elle was forced to fight, she planned her areas to be cramped. So she could hit low and dirty.

That wouldn’t be changing, when she left the competition and the castle. Training to use a sword decently wouldn’t help her. But grabbing for the old, familiar knives would accomplish nothing.

She grabbed for the short sword, testing it in her hands. It was more like a long-knife than anything, as big as a normal man’s forearm. She could rig a harness to strap to the small of her back, if need be. So when she ran it wouldn’t ruin the momentum of her hips and knees. It was still a very close-range, personal weapon.

Elle decided on the gleaming pair of throwing axes, instead. She twirled their light weight in her wrists as she headed over to Chaol, who finished up his warm-up before facing her and getting into third-position, angling the sword across his body, the point near his braced right hip. “On your guard.” He ordered.

“What the fuck says, ‘on your guard’?” She snorted.

With a snarl, Chaol lunged.

She was prepared for him and used the flat of one axe to deflect the blow—only she hadn’t prepared for how hard he would swing. Rolling to the side, she got up just in time to avoid another slashing blow. He really wasn’t fooling around this time. Grinning at him from a crouch, they circled each other. This time, she was the first to make a move. Slamming his blade down with one axe, she used the other to swing for his shoulder, to cut at the nerves in his arm that would render his wrist useless, but he let his weapon go to hold her forearm and slam his fist into her face. She rocked backwards as he picked up his sword, not seeing the foot she sent crashing into his shoulder.

And off they went. Finding a real rhythm this time. He was good—an actual fighter. His guard almost never faltered, and any openings he showed were usually traps. His blade, heavy as it was, was always controlled and swinging down with enough force to make her bones rattle. But she kept up. Used the flexibility and speed to her advantage, testing him for those tells every learned fighter has. And when she learned it, it was easy to anticipate when and how the sword would strike, how his stance would go, when he would sacrifice the weapon because of limited reach.

He was coming at her with a side sweep, both plunging and looking to slice at her unprotected thigh. An opening she hadn’t presented before. He put all his momentum in it, foot sliding out to brace himself—

She moved quick. Walked into the sweep, feeling the cut of steel slice her flesh as she kicked inside that sweeping leg as she slammed the butt of her axe against his temple. He faltered, the cut not going as deep as it could, before she jumped, using his braced and damaged leg for leverage so they both went careening sideways. She wrapped her arm around his throat, her leg around his sword arm, just before they crashed to the floor. He lifted, before slamming her down, any damage done to her was done to his throat, thanks to her hold. He would choke before the adrenaline left her system and her body felt all those nasty aches and pains.

Then he stilled, slammed that big, beefy hand against the ground by her hip. Calling her the winner.

She let go of him, and he rolled off her so they could both pant at the low ceiling. “You—ah, Wyrd.” He clutched at his rasping throat. “You have no discipline. You’d never fight in a war, or in any battle, not if you keep sacrificing yourself just to win.”

“Good thing I’m not a solider, then, eh?” She laughed, exhilarated. She’d hurt tomorrow—shit, she’d hurt in an hour—but for now she was riding the adrenaline and it felt great.

“Again.” He rose up. Grabbed his discarded sword as she grabbed her axes. This time they went slow, so he could show her how to fight.

* * *

# Elle

It was well into the evening when Brullo let everyone go. She wasn’t hungry, but she recognized her body’s need for food, so she didn’t protest when Chaol took her to the soldier’s cafeteria. She scarfed down cheese and bread as they sat alone at a long table. “Whah-woo-‘ehre?”

“What?” Chaol seemed unwilling to eat when she was, and just looked at her like he was going to be a little sick. “You look like a lady, but you have the manners of a street urchin.”

“Boo hoo.” She swallowed. “I can act like a lady, if it pleases me.”

“I suggest you do, then.” He paused, still in the process of making his sandwich. “How do you like it in the castle, then?”

“Snide remark or honest answer?” Elle asked. Now that she’d stopped eating to talk, she felt how full she was. It was nauseating, especially because the food here would sustain her for only a few hours. She missed wayfarer bread. She missed magically enhanced fruit.

He shrugged. “As if any answer you’d give wouldn’t be snide.”

She grinned, resting back in the chair to watch some soldiers move in and out. There was always a supply of food in the soldier’s barrack, it seemed, for whenever soldiers felt like eating between shifts. There was even an independent kitchen in the back, with its own chefs and servants. “You know me so well already.”

He nodded, content to layer meat and cheese between thick slices of bread. “I don’t even know why you accepted the offer. Obviously your Mistress thought it was too dangerous. Why you?”

Elle tried to search deep inside herself for the right answer, for the truthful one. She still had no idea why she’d accepted the offer. Being in the castle, under the King’s thumb, was dangerous. And the competition for a ‘champion’ was a disrespectful nod to the old Elvish swearing-rituals. Still, she’d come. And saying it was for the money didn’t feel like a good enough reason anymore.

“I… really don’t know.” She frowned at that, grabbing the goblet of wine she’d poured and held it in her hands. “It felt—necessary. The start of the right direction. Oddest thing, I know, but that’s the only thing I can think of.”

“Reputation?” He asked, before taking his first bite.

She had plenty of reputation. More reputation than she often knew what to do with. But he didn’t know that. “Caught me.” She chugged down her wine.

“What’s your Mistress like then?”

“Trying to pry into the Stone, now, are you?”

He only munched on his food, waiting. And she liked the steadiness of his brown gaze, the way his laugh lines flexed and deepened as his jaw worked. So she shrugged. “Hard and merciless,” She said, thinking of her Master. “Dresses and acts like one of the gentry, plays the court games better than most gentry, actually. But always wanting, always angling. I don’t think he’s ever content.”

Chaol stiffened. “He?”

Shit. “Ah—well, uhm…”

“I knew it.” He put his sandwich down. “The Stone is really a man, isn’t he? Or a group all using the same calling card?”

An easy enough theory. One she’d heard thousands of times. A female assassin had been scandalous and fresh when she’d first come out, but as she really made a name for herself, no one really believed she was a woman. And some had even tried using the prayer beads and taking kills under her name—all finding themselves dead within the week for the audacity.

Knowing she had to play it right, Elle looked away. Refused speaking for the entire meal, and then some more as Chaol escorted her back to her rooms.

* * *

In the morning, Chaol found her hanging from the posts of her four-poster, crunching up and down in the air with her shirt tied at the wrists and waist to keep from falling. She’d woken up an hour or two before dawn and had slipped past her guards by scaling the balcony on the level above her as they dozed. She’d walked to the strange clocktower, drawing the four symbols around it. She hadn’t recognized any of them, drawn them to any particular magic, but she still wrote them down.

She was in her room, exercising, before anyone was the wiser.

Elle paused to notice him in the doorway—long stick in hand—and smiled at him through clenched teeth before continuing on with her workout.

* * *

Chaol decided to walk her around the castle some more, after Brullo had let them go from practice. Maybe because she’d complained so much about being stuck inside, maybe because he was as bored as she was, or maybe just because of her cover—either way, she was glad for his company, even if they didn’t speak much. He teased her a little about the dress she was wearing, and she’d teased him about actually being a gentleman. Then things settled.

She could feel it though. Despite Chaol’s goodman intentions, they were becoming friends.

They rounded a corner, and Elle noticed the group heading their way. Lady Kaltain headed them, wearing a green dress today, and there was a small, sweaty old man by her side mopping up his face with a silk handkerchief. They weren’t the most arresting though. No. It was the Ellyewans walking with them.

Two large, buff Ellywans with curved swords walked on either side of a woman. The woman was easily the most eye-catching. She had a tall, thin, athletic body under her Ellyewan dress, which was looser and more freeing than Adolin’s fashions. Beautiful stamped plates of gold covered her neck, chest, and bare upper arms, contrasting sharply with her nearly black skin. A mass of thickly rolled braids twined around her golden circlet of a crown in an elaborate updo.

An Ellyewan Princess—no, _the_ Ellyewan Princess. Nehema.

Endovier Salt-Mines was at the border of Adolin and Ellyew and had a vast collection of Elleywan citizens working as slaves in the underground tunnels. Rebels, mostly, who were fighting King Havilliard’s control.

Her Master had put Elle there, rather than the easier-to-reach Calcutta Diamond Mine, because he thought being surrounded by foreigners would be a lonelier experience for her. At first, it had been. But her Master had always underestimated her need to connect, to be a part of people.

Slowly, bit by bit, as they toiled the salt mines and did grueling work, she learned the language. It was hard, because most died within the span of a month, but still, she did it. And she learned to communicate with her fellow slaves, she learned about their unwavering love for their Princess Nehema. The rebel-general, who fought in politics and in war against Adolin’s control over her country.

Chaol tensed, as Elle squeezed his arm, and they came closer to the group.

Elle was meeting one of her idols. Who did that? Who met their idols in real life?

“Captain Westfall,” Lady Kaltain said, curtsying. “So good to see you again.”

“And you, Lady,” Chaol said, bowing.

Nehema beside her watched them with a certain gravity to her gaze. Gods—she was everything; beautiful, serene, mastered. Elle was shaking—she should stop shaking.

Kaltain spoke. “I am pleased to present Her Royal Highness the Princess Nehema Yeegier of Ellyew.” Nehema gave a gentle nod of her head, a little golden bell braided into her hair jingling. “Your Highness, this is Chaol, Captain of the Royal Guard.” Chaol bowed very low. It wasn’t the Ellyew custom of greeting, but there was no denying his respect.

Elle felt like she had little birds flapping massive wings in her stomach, threatening to shoot them out from under her skin. Kaltain and her exchanged a glance. “And this is the Lady Lillian.” She said, with unhidden disdain.

Elle moved forward. Maybe a little too eagerly, since Nehama’s guards stiffened, but Elle only held up her hand, forearm extended in front of her body. Nehama lifted up her own, and her dry, smooth fingers grabbed her just before the bend of the elbow. Elle bowed, to touch her forehead against that offered up arm, making sure the back of her neck was exposed with the sweep of unbound hair.

When Elle lifted, she wet her lips and said, “ _Welcome to Rifthold, Your Highness,”_ In Ellyew. She was pleased to hear that the accent she’d learned along with the language was still good. “ _You’ve traveled a long way from the Great Desert, only to be escorted by this bitch?_ ” But Elle understood. Having Katltain as an escort was a courtly move, to prove how unimportant the Ellyew royal line was to Adolin. A subtle way of reminding the Princess that she was “allowed” her crown by their graces and didn’t have to be respected more than a visiting Lady would be.

Nehema’s smile was slow, beautiful, and showed all the fierce serenity that the Endovier’s claimed she was graced with. Behind her, the guards were looking at Elle with open curiosity. “ _The journey was better than the arrival, it’s true_.” Her voice was low and unhurried, elongating the many vowels of the Ellyew language. “ _I’m glad to hear that this one_ —” Her dark eyes flickered towards Kaltain, who was glaring at Elle, “— _Is well known for her bitchiness. I was beginning to think it was just me_.”

 _“It seems all Adolin royalty favors a cruel personality_.” Elle teased. “ _It suits their King’s temperament.”_ She finally released the Princess’s forearm.

“ _Yet fails to make the man seem even remotely human.”_ She agreed, giving another elegant head nod. “ _Thankfully, he left before I could arrive.”_

Elle was about to reply when Kaltain stepped up to them, making the guards shift and get closer to Nehema. “I’m afraid I haven’t understood a word the two of you have said.” She looked a little put out, and looking over her shoulder, Elle found Chaol’s confused gaze.

“We,” The Princess said, in the common language. She seemed to have a solid grasp on it, since Ellyew started out with verbs instead of subjects. Though her unhurried drawl did make the words hard to understand. “Are talking with the weather.”

“About the weather.” Kaltain sneered.

“It’s an idiom that doesn’t translate.” Elle snapped, not thinking. In Ellyew, _talking with the weather_ meant roughly ‘mind your own business’.

Kaltain, though, wasn’t a simple, gentle court-lady born and bred to have never heard a crude word used against her. She sneered, becoming immediately less attractive. “Her father has sent her here to learn our ways. I should correct her with _our_ ways, so she doesn’t sound foolish.”

Elle seriously doubted that the Princess was here to learn about Adolin ways. Everything Elle knew about the Princess was crafted from adoring Ellyew rebel slaves, yes, but the politics over the last few years backed up their reverential rumors. There was no way that a rebel Princess who despised the Adolin Kingdom would come here to do anything but spy and plot.

“Why are you even here, Kaltain? What do you know of royalty outside of the sheets?”

“Your Highness,” Chaol said, coming forward and blocking Elle’s view of Kaltain’s rapidly reddening face. “Are you having a tour of the castle?”

Nehema looked away from Kaltain to him, and then to Elle. She raised one eyebrow, as if saying ‘well, translate already’. Funny, how the Princess Nehema could understand Kaltain’s more technically complicated question. She must be playing them, pretending not to know the language.

So Elle played along too. “ _He’s asking an obvious question. To break up the tension.”_ She cast her hand up, in twisting motion. Ellyew—at least the rebel slaves—had always punctuated their meaning with hand gestures, since the music of the language didn’t allow for double entendres or subtle meanings like sarcasm or derision. The hand gesture meant, mostly ‘do you really want to know?’

Lips curling, she made her own hand gesture, putting two fists together, then spreading her fingers wide as they pulled apart. A negating motion, in this case, a ‘don’t bother’ but with sass. “ _I never understood the Adolin desire to waste one’s time and breath with meandering._ ”

“She says yes.”

“I never knew so many words to just mean the one.” Kaltain said, smiling with sugar-like sweetness.

“Your Highness,” Chaol said, reaching over and putting a hand on Elle’s forearm. “Please, it would be my honor to escort you where you wish to go.”

Elle translated, and Nehema was nodding halfway through. “ _Good. Get rid of her,”_ She said flatly, waving a hand toward Kaltain. “ _Her temperament is like that of a sand-kracken_.” They were beasts that dwelled in the deep sand, lying in wait and then eating horses, people, and trains whole.

Grinning, Elle flashed the pretty woman a smile. “Your dismissed,” She said, stepping behind Chaol to look Kaltain in the eye. “The Princess tires of your company.”

Kaltain’s eyes burned as bright as her cheeks. “But the Queen—”

“If that is Her Highnesses wish, it shall be granted.” Chaol interrupted. He motioned with his arm, and they started walking down the hall, leaving Kaltain behind. The sweaty man stayed behind, too.

“ _Are all your royal women like that?_ ” Nehema asked.

“ _Like_ Kaltain? _”_ Elle waved her hands back and forth. A ‘yes and no’ meaning. “ _She is ruthless and ambitious, but I like it better than the pathetic court women who run around this place, so used to being pampered that they can’t even imagine the idea of fighting for themselves. At least Kaltain, when she makes a small matter of politics into a war, stands up for herself.”_ She slashed through the air, confirming that the idea was her opinion and not fact.

Nehema eyed Elle, taking in her small stature, her dress, her walk, her unbound hair. She made it clear with a complicated set of gestures that she agreed, found the answer simplified, and thought that Elle herself was different. “ _How do you speak our language so well?_ ”

“ _I_ —” She did not want to lie to the Princess. In fact, she wanted very badly to tell Nehema about herself, about her people, too. It would ruin the cover Elle had, though. “ _Yes?_ ” She let her hands roll, showing that what she was about to say had consequences.

_“I will allow the wind to reshape the sand."_

Elle nodded. The Princess was accepting that they were building trust. “ _I was in slave’s salt mines, for a little over a year and half_.” Endovier was an Adolin name, and she didn’t want Chaol to associate it with the scars she exposed to Nehema’s widening gaze. “ _It taught me much. The best lesson, however, was the beauty of your language and the hearts of your people_.” They were the only reason why Elle hadn’t rolled over and died within the first week. Elle had just lost Sam, and her spirit had been shattered as Endovier tried to kill her body, too.

“ _You escaped? How?”_ Nehema stilled, making an absolute gesture by touching her lips. “ _The mines are inescapable_.”

She wanted to know if she could get her own people out that way. Elle shook her head. “ _I’m sorry—but the path can’t be followed_.”

“ _How?”_ She made the gesture again, more demanding this time.

“ _I used the pickaxe to murder the shift-observers and broke the shackles. It was good timing,”_ Eerily perfect timing, actually, as if the Gods themselves were looking over Elle’s shoulder, urging her to snap at just the right moment. “ _Nothing more. They happened to be opening the gates to admit new people. I killed those guards, let the new entrees flee—_ ”

“ _The_ Terran _Angel_.” Nehema spun and grabbed Elle’s face. Chaol stiffened as Nehema graced Elle with a kiss on the lips. It was the greatest sign of affection and thanks in the Ellyew language, stronger than any words. _“I have heard of you. They found their way home. They are alive because of you.”_

Elle felt like crying. Her eyes stung from the need, but she couldn't let them fall any more than she could keep the Princess's gaze. “ _I’m sorry I couldn’t get more out._ ”

“ _You are right. The way cannot be replicated._ ” Nehema said as she pulled away. _“You have done more for my people than most, and we are sisters, in our subjugation.”_ She quickly ended the conversation with a gentle roll of one wrist. “ _I know why I’m here, why are you?_ ” They began walking again.

She whipped the tears from her eyes. “ _Business_.”

“ _For_ Terra?”

Elle laughed, shaking her head. She hadn’t done a damn thing for her shattered home country since she’d left it as a child. “ _I know why I’m here, why are you_?” She asked, rounding Nehema’s words back at her.

Nehema’s lips curled into another smile, and she acknowledged the turn of phrase with another gesture. “ _I do not wish to lie to you, so let us talk of something more pleasant. Will you be here long?”_

Another yes-no gesture. She was stopped from answering again as Chaol cleared his throat, his hand on Elle’s forearm to draw her attention. “Yes?”

“We need to bring her back to the Queen’s council. I’m going to have a word with them about not letting Kaltain show her around.” He gave Elle a deep, searching look, as if trying to read the answers on her face. “I will be right back.” He turned to talk to some guards.

Nehema sighed, showing her despair with a glide of two hands, going opposite ways. “ _It’s a shame. For the first time since arriving here, I feel welcomed, almost centered. This place, I’m not suited for it. The weather, the clothes, the food, the way people stare at me—I miss my language, my people, my home_.” She touched her own face, looking at a couple courtiers, who were whispering and staring at her and her guards behind painted fans.

Nehema moved, suddenly, to grab Elle’s hand. Her fingers were strong and cool, and the calluses rubbed against Elle’s own. The Princess was obviously well acquainted with the bow and arrow, and the staff, too. And as Elle learned about the Princess, the Princess learned about her. They learned more about each other, touching hands, then they had by looking at postures and clothes. Elle looked up into dark eyes, and felt a kinship there, and understanding that Elle hadn’t felt since she was a tiny little girl in a very happy, bubbled world. “ _Will you keep me company while I’m here,_ Elle?”

Shock and hope sizzled through Elle’s chest. She signed for absolute. “ _Yes. I’ll warn you, now, though, I’m a terrible attendant._ ”

“ _I have attendants. I wish for a friend_.”

There was a rightness to that statement. Like something inside of Elle was untensing for the first time in years. Like she was moving towards the right path.

 _"I would be honored_ ,” Elle whispered, before stepping back. She noticed Chaol waiting, watching them were a weary eye. “ _The council will see you now._ ”

Nehema looked to Chaol, too, and gave him an arched eyebrow. When she turned back to Elle, she used the common tongue. “I’m glad we’ve met, Elle.” Her eyes were bright. “May your heart be strong.”

There were two ways to answer that. The regular way was to say ‘and peace be with you’. It was a saying between family, between friends, between strangers that have struck a deal or plan on seeing one another again. But there was another way to reply, one the Endovier slaves had taught her. “ _And your enemies dead_.”

Her eyes flashed, and the guards behind her exchanged weary glances. But that slow, curving smile was fitting herself over the Princess’s face. She turned to greet the waiting guards, then, who escorted her back to the Queen’s court.

Elle hadn’t had many female friends. The life simply didn’t allow it. Once, as punishment, as reward, her Master had sent Elle to train in the Red Dessert with the Silent Assassins. She had made a female friend there, the closest that she’d ever had, and they’d betrayed each other out of mutual respect and necessity. Other than that, females have always been rivals, bed-partners, and creatures to use to get to a target.

But Elle wanted it to work, with the Princess. She wanted to be her _friend_.

Chaol grabbed for her hand, and it found it’s place on his offered forearm as they walked back down the halls. Back towards Elle’s room. “You speak Ellyew.”

“Nope. Not a lick.”

He sighed, looking up as if trying to gather strength. “And you seem very close with the Princess.”

“She’s a friend.” A _friend_. It still sent thrills through her. Who actually got to meet their heroes—and become their friends?

“She is a dangerous friend to have, Elle.” He warned.

Elle looked up at him, a little startled. “So am I, Goodman. So am I.”

He seemed to remember that, then. Maybe the sight of tears had made him soft, maybe the conversation had shocked the knowledge of who Elle was out of his system. He stiffened, and they continued on in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I changed when she was in Endovier. I always figured that a place like that would create some pretty massive malnutrition. Hair would fall out. Muscle would deplete. You'd get leathery skin and have sores from the salt. Your teeth would fall out cus the calcium would leave your body. Stuff like that.
> 
> So, I wanted a few years for those side effects not to really bother her. It would take a huge amount of time to heal from something like that, but she's an elf, so... yeah. Few years. 
> 
> That, and I like the idea that she escaped on her own, going all bamf and shit.


	10. A Man of Honor

# Chaol Westfall

Chaol watched the assassin-in-training eat her lunch, her eyes darting from one plate to the next as her fingers blindly grabbed. She had immediately stripped from her gown the second she walked into the room, and now sat in front of him in a loose robe.

“You’re awfully quiet today,” She said, mouth full of food. She ate more than anyone he knew—including his guards. She had multiple helpings with each and every meal—and ate with a disgusting kind of enthusiasm. Maybe because she wasn’t used to regular meals on the streets. He didn’t know. “Enthralled by the Princess Nehema?” Her words were barely distinguishable as she chewed, but he was becoming familiar with the way she talked with her mouth full. And with the glowing mischief of her strange eyes.

“That headstrong girl?” He immediately regretted his words as Elle narrowed her eyes.

“And what’s wrong with headstrong girls, Chaol?” She asked, finally pausing in her eating. When she paused, she stopped all together, so he felt safe that food wouldn’t come flying out of her mouth as he moved for his own. “Other than that fact that they’re not wooden-headed ninnies who can only open their mouths to give orders and gossip, of course.” She fluttered long lashes, fanning eyes that changed flecks of color with every tilt and motion.

Chaol didn’t want to be patronized today. He had just gotten word that the King had rejected his suggestions for a guard and had gone on his trip without telling a soul where he was going. There had also been a few kennel dogs found dismembered and torn apart in a section of the servant’s quarters. The guards were having trouble with a few of the competitors, too. Ale and the assassin, Graves, were being particularly grabby with the female servants.

Still, he couldn’t help the bait Elle offered. He never could. “I prefer a—certain type of woman.”

She scoffed at him. “Let me guess, gorgeous, sweet, and soft-spoken?” She rose a knee up, putting her chin on it. The disturbing sight of her wrists popped into view, as the long sleeves of her robe fell down. They were ugly, hideous, twisting things. Born from repeatedly reopening sealed wounds. He couldn’t imagine having scars like those—what had it taken, to receive them? How was she able to move her wrists without restriction?

“You just described my mother.” It was truth, but he also said it because he knew it would make her laugh, and he was getting sick of the way she watched him; like she could see directly into his soul with those odd, shifting eyes, and the only reason why she didn’t rip him apart from his very foundation was because she was amused by what she saw.

Elle laughed, and it was hard to imagine her as some dark, deadly assassin when she laughed. How could someone who’d done such bad things _laugh_ like that? Like there was pure joy leaking out of them? And how could anyone who made him work so hard in the training room to keep up with her, look the way she did? Her beauty never dulled. In fact, her golden-red hair only seemed to shine brighter, leaking down her back like flame made into tangible matter. And her face—he had never seen such a sweet face before.

And then she ruined it all by speaking. “Of course you have a mother like that. Of _course_. Let me guess, your father is some hard, stoic war-lord who never smiles but dotes on her incessantly?”

He frowned at Elle but didn’t see her. His father…

Chaol’s lessons as a child had taught him about the different kinds of marriages in the world—the ones bore out of love, necessity, or political-ties—as he was told he’d have to marry for Anielle as its Lord. But by learning about marriage, he’d learned how _wrong_ his parent’s marriage was. How it wasn’t normal, for the wife to avoid her husband at every turn, for a husband to scream and yell whenever he caught his wife in his presence. How it’s not normal, to see one’s mother covered in bruises—

Chaol looked down. At Elle’s still exposed wrists.

It wasn’t normal for a child to have scars like that, either.

“I was born three months too early to have been conceived on my parent’s wedding night.” Chaol said. “I learned from my wet-nurse that the wedding had been shockingly quick and unplanned. No one had even heard of my mother, a simple farmer’s wife out in the wet-fields of Anielle. But there I was. And there they were.” Elle was still. It was creepy, how absolutely still she could get. As if she wasn’t even breathing. “They don’t love one another. But my father’s honor dictated that an illegitimate child was worse than not having a Lady for a wife. I think…” He cleared his throat.

And again, she was looking at him as if she could see into his soul. “Sometimes honor breeds resentment, and resentment breeds violence.” She murmured. “My cousin. He’s the same way.”

“You have family, then?”

“Had.” She looked out, past the constantly open doors of her balcony and out into the courtyard. “Sometimes—having living relatives doesn’t mean you have family.”

And that was the truest thing he’d ever heard her say. Chaol shook his head and went back to his own food.


	11. The Strength to Survive Leaves Scars

# Elle

“How as training today?” Chaol asked, as he found Elle lounging on her balcony, trying to get some sun as she read her pilfered books. It was about a sea-captain and tugged at old memories of what her and Sam had done together, raiding old pirate ships. The sun was hot, and she was sweating, but the light breeze made it bearable.

She put the book down. “I had a better time than Eye Eaters, I’d say.” She'd heard from Nox and Pelor that someone had found the contestant dead in the hallway. "Torn to ribbons" was the exact phrasing. 

It was a day before the first competition, so it had to be foul play. Had to be. The only question was _why_. 

If it was a crime of passion and opportunity, how close had Elle been to being slaughtered? She'd made a habit out of walking the halls at night, to go to the library for books to read, and to stave off nightmares. She hadn't sensed anyone following. But the what if was driving her insane.

Something dark filled his eyes. A memory, maybe, of horrors. Or anger at her from the information. “That’s none of your business. Don’t go trying to pry details.”

Elle nodded, stretching her legs before putting them on his lap as he sat across from her. “Why are you here, Chaol?”

“I’ve had a long day.”

And he was here, with her? Didn’t he have friends, lovers? Still, she appreciated his company and the fact that they truly were becoming friends. “Because of the murder?” She teased, trying to lighten his heavy implication.

“Because Dorian dragged me into a three-hour council meeting.” He bitched, jaw tightening.

She hummed. She knew Chaol and Dorian were friends, but She didn’t understand the depth of that friendship. Or the why. “How long have you two been friends?”

He paused, contemplating what the information would give her, or if he really, truly wanted to share it. He’d done the same, before talking about his parent’s marriage. She let him weigh the consequences while trying to give him her most sincere face. “Since he was young.” He finally said, looking away from Elle and towards the fountain. “My father lived here when he was in the council, and I would help train with Dorian, help him with his lessons.”

“When did you move back to Silver Lake?”

“When I was almost thirty.” He finally answered. “I visited with my father, and when I went back home, I missed it here. Dorian convinced the then Captain of the Guard to take me as his apprentice. Brullo helped, which is the only reason why I was allowed to, since my father tried to choke the apprenticeship the second it started. He didn’t like me being here.”

She watched the fountain’s water dance and jump from the wind. There was more to the story, but there was always more to everyone’s story. It’s easy to speak about the past, but hard to live through it as it’s happening.

“What of you, then?” He asked.

She snorted, jerking his thigh with her foot. “Oh, much the same, I suppose.”

There was a small smile on his face, and his hand rested on the top arch of her foot with a familial gesture. “What do your parents make of their daughter?”

“My parents are dead.” She said, shrugging. “Died when I was thirty. But I expect they are mighty displeased with me, beyond the Veil.”

Frustration made his eyebrows draw in together. Obviously, he still believed her age was a lie. “So you—”

She took a huge breath out through her nose, all at once annoyed by his questions. “I was born in Terra. I was picked up by my Master, trained to be an assassin. I started contract killing five years after I met him. I was betrayed shortly after. Things happened in the middle. Now I’m here. That about sums me up, Goodman Chaol.” It didn’t. It truly didn’t, but there were some secrets about her past that she couldn’t share.

He wouldn’t let it go, though. “Why would a child become a killer?” She could tell the thought disgusted him. Yet he still asked it.

“Because no one expects a child to come up to you and stab you in the gut.” She said, laughing. “That’s how I did it, in the beginning years. I’d play a damsel, an orphan, a beggar child, a pick-pocket, the child of a servant or a child-servant. No one ever paid attention to me, and no one ever suspected me, even if I was caught over the body with red hands. A few hysterical tears, and they were pushing me away so they could look at the body or go find the ‘real’ killer. It only got harder as I grew older, but by then, I had more tricks up my sleeve.”

“Where’d you get that scar on your right hand?” Neither of them looked at the jagged, pale scar that ran across her right hand’s knuckles and down to her wrist. Still, she flexed her fingers in remembered pain.

“I wanted to prove myself and become an independent assassin. I tried and failed. My Master decided that I wasn’t nearly as skilled as he wanted me to be, and that my left hand was weak with the knife. So he gave me choices. I could either let him break my hand, which meant it would hurt more, and that his displeasure would lead to another, cruller sort of lesson—or I could do it myself.” She played with my knuckles, flexing, tensing, twisting them. “That night, I put my hand in the doorframe and slammed it shut. Split my hand wide open, broke two bones, and dislocated a few joints. It took months to heal, months where I could only use my left hand to defend myself from his other lessons.” She looked in Chaol’s eyes.

His was horrified. She could see it. She could use that horror, if she wanted to. Could ruin him from the inside out with horror, pity, and a few deft manipulations. All he had to do was ask more questions. Try to dig a little deeper into her.

Her stare seemed to make him uncomfortable. He looked down, away. Cleared his throat. “The first test is tomorrow. Are you ready?”

“How can someone be ready for something they can’t prepare for?” She looked back out to the fountain. Watched the wind play with the water.

He remained there for a while longer, before standing. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Aye. Tomorrow.” She tucked her feet under herself, to get back some of the warmth that had fled when he let go.

* * *

Chaol was demon. It was official. They’d done three laps around the game park today—eight miles by her count—at a breakneck speed. And the bastard didn’t even have the decency to look that winded.

Elle gasped, stumbling to a halt as she held onto her knees. Her stomach heaved for food that wasn’t there. All that came out was clear, acidic bile. And tears. Lots of tears. Chaol stood to the side, jumping up and down like an ass before stretching.

She tried to catch her breath and blink away the heavy black stars dancing in her eyes.

It had been three days since the first test and no word on when the next one would come. But it wasn’t nearly as bad as the letter she’d found on her window this morning when she went to sneak out. It hadn’t said anything, but it hadn’t needed to say anything, it had just depicted the crude image of a bloody dagger. Her Master’s symbol, the symbol for the Assassin’s Guild. Which meant he finally knew Elle was here. What he wanted, she had no idea, but she’d found the guards passed out from some sleep-poison darts, and apparently Chaol blamed her. Hence the grueling punishment of their morning run.

“Done puking?” Chaol asked, when the heaving stopped. She glared up at him through her tears, as the world spun and swayed. Moving her head was the wrong move, though, and she dry-heaved again. “I told you not to eat beforehand.”

“Fuck off.” She wanted to punch the smirk right off his face, but her knees shook and her head swam. She noticed he got closer, hand coming to sooth her back or hold her hair—she didn’t know. He stilled before he could touch her.

Her shirt was white and the material was made thin and breathable to accommodate the heat of summer, so the sweat made it translucent and clinging. She knew what he was staring at. Why he’d stilled. Her back. “What? My scars that fascinating?”

Chaol moved away. “How did you get those?” The scars were pretty horrific, upraised, round, and bubbling up from her skin in puckered red. They were all in the same angle, running from the upper right towards the lower left, covering her from the tops of her shoulders all the way down to her ass. She even had some on her ass, too, just for kicks.

“How do you think?” She griped. She was too tired for sarcasm.

Anything he could have said, anything he could have asked, she hadn’t expected: “What did you do to deserve them?”

Something in her tightened, then broke. She spun on him, remembering at the last moment that she was still feeling faint. She wobbled on her feet and fell into the grass on her hands and knees, retching some more. Still, the anger made her snarl up at him. “No one deserves to be whipped like an animal!” She screamed. He opened his mouth, but she cut him off. He wanted to know? He’d know.

“They dragged me to the whipping post and tore off my shirt. Tied me up between two logs and without saying a single God’s cursed thing to me, started whipping. Twenty-two lashes, but because I passed out after thirteen, they made me start all over again.” She snarled up at him. At the horror in his eyes. “I never learned why. It’s not the usual habit to break a prisoner,” She shoved her sleeves up. So he’d see the other scars she’d gotten from Endovier, “On the first day, but I guess I was just lucky. In the morning, when they came to collect me, they shoved the manacles on my wrist.” Attached to the line of other weary, broken Endovier slaves. They put a pickaxe in her hand, too, and the wounds constantly bled and opened and closed and bled and opened as she was forced to break up the rock crystals and haul them up the line. Every movement breathed unbearable fire into her. She’d thought she was going to die. She thought she had died. Would have begged to die, if there had been anything other than pain.

“I can’t remember much. But a woman put salt in the wounds, to keep it from getting infected. It was the only thing we had.” The only thing anyone ever had in Endovier was fucking salt. “And I never got to repay her, because she was raped to death by four men before I became lucid enough to realize I was fucking alive.”

She got up to her feet. Her hands were shaking, not from anger, but from old memories that were making her angry. And Chaol had that look. That question. She got right up to him, snarling up at his face. She hoped he could smell the vomit on her breath. “Ask me, Goodman Chaol. Ask me if they ever tried to do the same to me.”

He was stiff. His voice was rough, a whisper in the hot morning air. And his eyes—Wyrd curse him, she hated the pity she saw there. “Did they ever rape you, too?”

Her smile felt wrong on her face. _She_ felt wrong. “They tried. Oh, they really, really tried. But that’s the funny thing about trying to rape a woman who knows how to kill people. Try all they wanted, their dicks tended to get ripped off.” A simple, pleasurable lie she liked to tell herself. Yes, the overseer’s dicks got ripped off, but sometimes it was after the fact. Still—once they tried, they never tried again.

His horror turned to disgust, and she spit on the ground to get the taste of vomit out of her mouth. “We survive as we can, Chaol.” Sometimes, it took all the strength she had just to survive.


	12. Conflicting wants

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm not sure if this deserves a trigger warning or not? So better be safe than sorry. This chapter has sex in it, and it's with Dorian and Celaene (Elle). Because of the way I changed her character this might be uncomfortable for some people.

# Dorian Havilliard

Dorian tried not to slouch as he sat on his throne. Music and chatter filled the space, calling to a familiar lullaby and trying to get him to sleep.

He didn’t understand why his mother insisted he attend her court every week. But it was better than studying the corpse of the Eye Eater with Chaol again and again, and going over confusing details that never made sense, no matter how much time had passed.

Dorian glanced at his mother, seated on her throne beside him. If she’d known about the competition, she probably would have tried to put a stop to it. The horror of the Eye Eater, the death of the fleeing champion, it would have sent her screaming to the rooftop, deploying her usual tactic of exposure to get Dorian’s father under her will. But for now, she was blissfully ignorant. Watching her court as they strutted and gossiped and schemed and seduced and danced before her.

He felt like an ornament, sitting up here. Dressed in clothes of his mother’s chosen, wearing his crown, pretending not too sleep.

“My dear,” She said, turning to look at him with a small smile. “I received a letter from Hollin, this morning. He sends his love.”

It was a blessing to the world, sending the little monster away. “Does he say anything of interest?”

“Only that he loathes the school and wishes to come home.”

“He says that every letter.”

His mother sighed. “I would collect him, if your father would let me. I’d love to have him home.” Dorian couldn’t understand that, but he supposed, that was the reason he wasn’t a mother. “You were better behaved, dear.” She said, reaching over to pat his hand. “You never disobeyed the rules, or your tutors, or tried running off. You were perfectly, absolutely well behaved.” Yes, Dorian remembered. He smiled, lips twisting in a melancholy grin as he remembered the young Princess from Terra that he’d been betrothed to when he was a boy. The first and only time he’d seen her, before she’d been slaughtered by Dorian’s father along with all her family, she’d called him a little pris. Then her evil cousin—or had Aedion been her twin?—started smacking him with a wooden sword.

His mother drew his attention back with a heaving sigh. “But Hollin is different. He needs special attention, a loving hand. I worry that they aren’t giving him that, at his school. When I’m dead, you’ll care for Hollin, won’t you?”

No, he’d send the evil little thing as far away as possible. But he couldn’t tell his mother that. “Dead? Mother, you’re only—”

“I know how old I am.” She waved a hand heavy with jeweled rings. “Which is why you must marry. And soon.”

It always turned back to marrying. He wouldn’t mind the court, wouldn’t mind being his mother’s ornament if the conversation didn’t always steer towards marriage. He hadn’t liked the idea when he was a boy, getting smacked around with a wooden sword, and he didn’t like the idea now.

His mother ignored his silence. “You are the crowned Prince, Dorian. And almost seventeen. Do you wish to become King and die without an heir so Hollin can take the throne?” Dorian didn’t answer her, but he didn’t need to. “I thought so.” She pulled her hand away. “There are plenty of young women who might make a good wife. Though a Princess would be preferred.”

“Maybe father shouldn’t have killed Princess Aelin, then.” He groused.

“There is another. The Princess Nehema.” She laughed as he turned to glare at her. “Oh, don’t worry. I won’t force you to marry her. I’m surprised your father allows her to still bear the title at all. The impetuous, haughty girl—did you know she still refuses to wear the dress I sent her? The nerve!”

Dorian tried to bite down his anger. He hadn’t wanted to marry Nehema because he didn’t want to marry a stranger. “I’ve only spoken to her the once,” He said. “She seemed… lively.”

“Then perhaps she can keep up with you and you _shall_ marry her.” Dorian looked away. “It’s a pity,” His mother said, trying again, “That Lady Kaltain is so close to Duke Parrington. She’s such a beautiful girl, and so polite. Perhaps she has a sister?”

His eyes found Kaltain, who stood at the far end of the court, talking and scheming away with all the rest of them.

“What about Elise?” His mother asked, and his eyes moved to the young dark-haired woman clad in lavender who was dancing with a count’s son. “She’s very beautiful. And quite playful.” She was playful in the bedroom, too. A right tease.

“She bores me.” He said.

“Oh, Dorian.” His mother’s voice made him wince. She put a jeweled hand over her jewel encrusted chest. “You’re not about to inform me that you wish to marry for love, are you? Love does not guarantee a successful marriage. And you will be King, anyhow. Marriage, to you, will be nothing more than a contract. You must choose someone you trust to keep your council, who will help with your political endeavors. Not someone you can love.”

No, love hadn’t factored into any of his decisions about marriage—or lack thereof. He was just bored. Bored of the women, bored of the cavaliers masquerading as companions. Bored of the entire thing.

The same girls looked at him with flattering adoration. The same women jumped into his bed, all doing the same thing, as if they’d trained together in some courtesan’s brothel. The serving girls were better at what they did. Yet they bored him, too. So did the councilmen who slipped legislation under his door with hopeful notes, promising a party here, a game there. And his father was still out, looking to dominate the world so every country and continent bore the wyvern flag. Even gambling on the so-called champion’s game bored him.

All his life, there had been isolation. A loneliness. People wanted something from him. Their merriment at the games they played were meaningless to him, because they were all trying to get to what he’d been born into.

If it hadn’t been for Chaol, who didn’t care a bit about the court games at all, Dorian would have gone insane a long time ago.

“You’re sulking again.” The queen sighed. “Have you heard of Rosa? My poor child, how she broke your heart!” She shook her head. Grabbed his hand again. “Dear, it was over a year ago, you must move on…” He didn’t want to think about Rosa. Or the boring, brutish husband she’d left him for. “Dear, look at this.” She handed him a letter. “It’s a list of potential wives. All of them are suitable for the crown. And I’ve heard you have no problem producing heirs.”

He shoved the letter into his pocket, that weird acidic feeling in his stomach. “I’ll think about it.” And before she could reply, he got up off the dais and walked through the room. Women flocked to him, asking about who he was taking to the Samhuinn ball, but he couldn’t remember their names, only what they were like in bed, so he kept walking until he was through the door.

Once he was free, he walked. He didn’t plan on going anywhere in particular, so he just went.

He heard the clash of swords from an open doorway. He paused. He was in the guards wing, his feet taking him to Chaol without thought. He faced the champion’s training room, and even though it was supposed to be over by now, there were still people practicing inside.

And there she was. Practicing.

She wove between a knot of three guards, her sword an extension of a snapping, tiny body that was surprisingly athletic. She dodged. Spun. Kicked. Whipped her sword about in moves Dorian couldn’t fathom trying. But then, he thought the same when he watched Chaol practicing.

Someone began clapping to the left, and the four dueling figures stopped moving. The guards panted as Elle stood there in the middle of them, at least a head shorter and over a hundred pounds lighter. Now that she wasn’t in perpetual motion, he could really look at her. Sweat coated her thin shirt to her frame, exposing a slim, narrow, exciting body. High, round cheekbones were flushed, gifting a softer, deeper color to match her strange copper-gold-red hair, which was piled high on her head. Her eyes—which were never one color, but all colors, light and shifting like an opal’s—glowed.

But she was truly beautiful when her full, round lips separated, and she smiled. It took all the edge off of her. Melted all the danger.

Princess Nehema was still clapping as she came nearer to Elle. She was clad in dark tunic and trousers, clutching an ornate wooden staff under one arm. Dorian watched as they drew closer to each other, and Elle said something that made Nehemia laugh.

Where was Chaol? Brullo? Why was a criminal trained to be an assassin with the Princess of Ellyew? And with a weapon in hand?

Dorian rushed forward and bowed quickly the Princess. Nehama had no affection for him, and she only gave a cold, imperious nod to acknowledge his presence. He reached for Elle’s hand, noting the scars, the smell of metal and sweat as he pressed his lips to bruised and bloody knuckles. “Lady Lillian.” He said, as he stood up. He held onto her hand. It was so hard to believe that she was so small until he was standing right next to her.

“Your Highness.” She pulled her hand from his. But he held on fast.

“Might I have a word?” He pulled her closer to him, then away, before she could say anything. When they were out of hearing distance, he demanded to know where Chaol was.

Elle shrugged. Maddening girl. “Who knows. I’m not his keeper. And you’re not mine, either.” She crossed her arms, distracting him again with the way her sweat made her shirt translucent. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and her nipples were dark against the flesh of her breasts.

“Why is Princess Nehema here?” He demanded. That was a safe question.

“She called on me. When Philippa told her I was here, she insisted on joining.” She grinned and said something in a rolling, lilting tongue that sounded like vowel-shoved gibberish. From behind him, Princess Nehema laughed, and replied with the same gibberish.

Good Goddess—Elle could speak Ellyewan?

She turned to leave him again, but he grabbed hold of her. Her opal eyes shined as she looked at him straight in the eyes. No lust, no simpering, no barely concealed desire for him to do something for her. She just stared. It made him nervous. “You can’t be here with the Princess.”

Her face was hard to read. It was always covered in that swaggering, confident amusement that cloaked her from head to foot. She smirked up at him. “Why? Afraid I’ll kill the one person in this entire castle that isn’t a blathering idiot?” She gave him a look, making it clear that she thought he was a blathering idiot, too.

The thrill of her went straight to his chest. “No—it just can’t happen. She’s here to learn our customs, not to spar.”

“She’s a Princess. She can do what she likes.”

“It’s not _done_.” Dorian insisted. “I’ll escort her to her chambers.”

She mocked him with her eyes, with her face, with the elegant sweep of her arm as she stepped aside to let him pass. “Wyrd help you.”

Dorian took a deep breath, shoving his hair away from his face as he approached the Princess, who had waited for them in the fighting circle with the guards. “Your Highness.” He greeted. “I’m afraid we must return you to your chambers.”

The Princess ignored him, looking over his shoulder with a raised, imperious eyebrow. Between the two women, Dorian was starting to get a complex.

And Elle spoke Ellyew at her, and whatever she said had the Princess stomping her staff against the ground. She hissed something at him, speaking so low and fast that he wouldn’t have had a hope to translate it, even if he knew more than rudimentary Ellyewan.

“She says _you_ can return to your rooms and let us be.” Elle said, coming to his side, mocking him with every breath she took.

“Tell her that sparring is unacceptable.” Elle translated, and the Princess waved her hand in the air with a deliberate motion. As if Ellyewan wasn’t hard enough, they had unspoken symbols that represented meaning. Dorian grit his teeth as she walked further into the sparring circle. “What did you say?”

“I said that you volunteered to be her first partner.” Elle laughed, and damn him, she was beautiful. “Well? Don’t keep the Princess waiting.”

“I will not spar with the Princess.”

“Would you rather spar with me?” She asked, telling him exactly how hilarious she found the idea. As if she wasn’t a tiny little wisp of a thing.

“Perhaps if we had a private lesson in your chambers.” Dorian smiled. “Tonight.” He was playing with fire, he knew that, but he still couldn’t help it. Her shirt was still plastered to her chest.

She looked him up and down, and he felt exposed under her gaze. “If you want to fuck, then let’s fuck.” And he was struck a little dumb by how easily she said it, how crudely. “But don’t use it as a way to stop your ass from getting kicked by the Princess.” In a motion he couldn’t see, she smacked his ass, forcing him towards the fighting circle. “Go.”

He lurched forward, then stopped as he watched the Princess twirling her staff. She looked very, very used to the weapon, which was heavy enough to give him a concussion. He changed directions, grabbing for two wooden swords on the racks. “How about basic swordplay, instead?” He asked, lifting them up. There was no translation needed. She nodded, handed her staff over, and waited for him.

He waited until she had it gripped in her hand. But it was gripped all wrong. She had it in both hands, so the sword was behind her, dipping to the floor by her right side. “You hold it like this, Princess.” He said. Showing his stance.

He was unprepared for when the Princess lunged at him. Pain shot up his wrist as she sword was flung off to the sidelines, and he tried not to stomp his feet like a baby as both women laughed at him.

“Try dodging this time, Dorian!” Elle cheered.

Dorian moved to grab his sword off the ground, but then he heard a shaking hiss. He looked over, to see that Chaol had found himself in the room and was speaking to her under his breath, head bowed down towards Elle. Elle shook her head, he said something, and there was fire in her eyes as she shoved him away.

He shouldn’t care that they were so close—he really shouldn’t. But he did.

“You like her, no?” Princess Nehemia asked, her voice velvet soft, almost hard to understand with the slow, vowel-heavy drawl.

Dorian didn’t tear his eyes away from them, as they continued speaking low to each other. When Elle spoke to Chaol, the distancing amusement was gone. She looked upset, furious, sad. Almost vulnerable. And he watched as, with a quick heat, Elle stormed out of the room.

Chaol headed towards them. “What was that?” He asked. “Why was she in here?”

But Dorian didn’t have the patience for this conversation, or any desire to complete it. He bowed to the Princess once more. “By your leave.” He said, and with a withering glare at Chaol, he followed Elle out of the training room.

* * *

Dorian found himself transfixed. Utterly transfixed.

Chaol had followed him out of the training room, chiding him about letting the two women be in the same room again, chiding him about fighting the Princess of Ellyew, chiding him about being with Elle, chiding him about being without personal guards when there was a murderer in the castle. In the end, Dorian found himself wandering to Elle’s doorstep, thoughts of her crude invitation ringing in his head. Inside, the sounds of the piano drew him to the gaming room.

And there she was, playing, her back to him.

She was good. Better than good. She made no mistakes as her fingers sang over the keys, wrists snapping, body swaying slightly as she altered a melancholy piece with a hurried, anxious timing. He wondered what she was thinking about as she played, wondered what went on in her strange, enigmatic mind.

When she finished, she looked over her shoulder at him. She was still sweaty, still wearing the see-through tunic and clinging pants, hair bound up in braids and pins. “What are you doing here, Dorian?”

He liked that she never used his title. That she talked to him like he was a normal person. And the smile he gave her was easy, natural. “We decided to meet tonight, don’t you remember?”

“Ah.” She got up off the bench, then turned to him. He half expected her to laugh him off, tell him it had all been a joke and then they would sit in her living room, talking about whatever it is young apprentice assassins talked about. Knife quality, maybe. Or the annoyance of not oiling one's hinges.

But then, as she walked up to him, she flung her shirt off. And she walked to him with her typical hip swinging swagger, her bare chest totally exposed, the sweat making honeyed skin shine. Her breasts were round and high, her nipples hard and dark. And she was tiny. He knew it, logically, but seeing her naked—it seemed impossible that ribs could be so narrow, that a waist could be so small. She looked so delicate, striding up to him. Yet there were scars all over. Knife wounds along her ribs, a burn mark across one breast, the angry sprawl of silvery-thin claw marks up and down her belly, a vicious dent in her collarbone. And horrible, warped, ugly scars surrounding her wrists.

Chaol had told him about those scars. Said they were manacle scars—but Dorian had never seen anything like them. It all contrasted so sharply with her looks. But not her eyes. They matched the sharp, everchanging glint in her cold, pale eyes.

Stopping nearly in front of him, she reached down and took off her trousers. Exposed narrow, gentle hips that flared from her little waist. She’d have an hourglass figure, when she grew up. But for now, it was all sleek, subtle curves. And a wild patch of red-gold hair between a large gap in smoothly muscled thighs. More scars, too. Heavy, damaging scars on her shins. A few more knife and sword wounds. The same kind of delicate silvery scars on the tops of her feet that she had on the top of her right hand.

She reached up to her hair. Exposed a small tattoo on the inside of her left upper arm, the words _she loved her kingdom very much_ scrawled in a messy hand. Then one pin fell out of her hair. And another. And another. Till a long braid fell down. He watched her, entranced, as she undid that braid and let the long swing of sweaty red-gold hair fall around her.

She was beautiful. She was painful to look at. And she was staring at him. Waiting.

“Well? Now that you’ve seen me, do you want to go and get one of your soft, pale Ladies?”

He did. She terrified him.

Licking his lips, he shook his head. “No. I…” He cleared his throat. “Are you a virgin?”

Her low, throaty laugh did something to him. And he watched as she swayed near him, watched her hands come up, then grab at his hair with an almost cruel grip to bring his face down to hers. Her lips hovered below his, and all he smelled with sweat and metal. “I am not a virgin.”

And then she kissed him. Her lips were small, soft, but her kisses weren’t. Her kisses were hungry, ravaging his mouth and going straight to his stirring dick as she licked and thrilled and bit at him. He grabbed for her back, puling her closer, feeling strange—

He pulled back, hands drifting. “What are—”

Her opal eyes flashed up at him. Demanded from him. “Are we doing this, or not?”

Scars. More scars. Good Gods, what had happened to her? But there was no going back, not unless she was unwilling—and she seemed more than willing. He released her back, so he wouldn’t have to feel those scars, and cupped her face with one hand while reaching down between her legs with the other. She was mildly wet, and he worked between her folds, rubbing her clit, her tongue devoured him.

Her body was a marvel. Little as it was, it was responsive to his every touch, his every action. And she didn’t just lie there, waiting for him to make the first move. No, she shoved at him, pulled him, grabbed him. Worked his trousers off before getting him to lie on his back as she crawled up his body. With his pants halfway down his thighs and his tunic still on, she sat herself on his cock.

She was wet and tight and naked atop him. And the way she moved her hips, swaying on her thighs—it was exhilarating. And she was shameless. He watched her roll a breast between her hands as the other tangled in her hair, her back arched, her body hypnotizing. And she rocked, faster and faster, her breath becoming moans and her nails clawing at his chest.

It was hot, filthy, and quick. Possibly one of the best fucks he’d ever had in his life, and he came inside of her screaming, holding onto her impossibly small hips like he’d buck right out of his skin.

They panted together for a while, after, before she climbed off him. He grabbed at her calf, wrapping his fingers around it. “Where are you going?”

“For a bath, Your Highness.” He frowned, eyes opening all the way to see her staring down at him. It seemed impossible, but she was even more distant and amused than she had been before. There was nothing he could read in her ever-changing eyes. “The adventure is over. Time to go back to life.”

“You’re not an adventure.” But that felt like a lie as he sat up. She turned, walking away, and he felt something in his stomach dive down deep as he looked at her back. Large, diagonal, bubbled and red scars covered her from shoulder to her round ass. She’d been whipped. _Badly_. And been forced to scar from it.

“Oh, really?” She mocked him with her laughter and gave him a look over her shoulder, catching him staring at her scars. She seemed to curse him, with a look alone, damning him for every choice he’d ever made. “So, having a young assassin is nothing out of the normal, for you? Nothing at all that would entice a court-confined womanizer whose had just about every other woman he’s set his sights on?”

He felt his face heat. He’d never been treated like this by anyone but his father. Never by anyone he’d slept with. “Don’t you know who you're talking to?”

“My dear Prince.” She drawled, continuing to walk away. He scrambled to lift his pants and follow her as she walked to her bathing chamber. She used the castle’s pipe system to turn on hot water, so steam rose and fell as she sat comfortably naked by the side of it. “You can go now, Dorian.” Her voice was sharp, amused, bored.

Dorian found he missed the things he’d thought of as a chore: the gentle way a woman’s arms would wrap around him and hold him in the afterglow, how he would play with a woman’s hair, or how they would speak softly to each other as they lay in bed. He would get none of that from her, though. He didn’t know why he expected it. She was just a cruel little girl.

“Good night, then.” He said stiffly, waiting for her to look at him. To acknowledge him. She didn’t. Instead, she flashed that painful back again as she climbed into the steaming tub.

He turned, tying his pants as he walked out into the living room of her apartment. He stopped by the roaring hearth, and before thinking about it, threw his mother’s list of eligible Ladies into the fire.


	13. Days Gone By

# Elle

“It was stupid.” Chaol said. He was sitting at her table, drinking her water, and scolding her as the healer—a pretty thing with brown hair, brown eyes named Sorscha—put salve on her stomach. The bruises were terrible and a few of her ribs were cracked, but, according to Sorscha, there were no signs of internal bleeding. Yet. “A daring rescue, seriously?”

“I won, didn’t I?” She’d come in fifth from last, and Nox, being last, had managed to avoid the chopping block because of Ned Clement’s death. 

“Yes. _Somehow_ you managed to scale up that damn wall three times faster than I’ve seen anyone climb anything. Ever. Very discreet, by the way.” He was in a fine temper ever since she’d landed down on the ground after touching the flag.

“Well sorry for surprising you, you fucking—ah.” Sitting up was a bad idea. Elle lowered herself, smiling at the now wide-eyed Sorscha. “Sorry, love.”

“It’s okay. This should help with the pain.” She rubbed Elle’s belly while looking at her still tarred skin. “And I can make some acidic soap, for your hands and feet.”

“Will it help?” Elle asked, curious. She’d never found anything but time and lots and lots of scrubbing to help with the tar. Every time she had to scale, she wore gloves for over a month to hide the evidence and had to lay especially low.

“You hold back in the competitions. Admit it.” Chaol said, still testy. “The last target—now the wall. You’re hiding how good you are.” Chaol demanded, stepping over to steal her attention away. The pretty healer looked down, face heating up at his looming, bulking presence.

“Apparently it’s not working very well.” Elle grumbled. Sorscha rose up to leave, bowing first to Elle, then to Chaol, before promising in a soft voice to come back by tonight with acidic soap.

Elle didn’t bother to get up. Or to pull her shirt back down to cover her stomach. “Did your Master teach you to hide?” Chaol demanded. He sat on the armrest by her feet, glaring at her. Their friendship been off since he’d found her scars. Their once easy comradeship gone.

Good—she was glad. He was an asshole.

“Ha! That’s hilarious.” Her Master would have killed her for saving Nox. Threatened the demons of Wyrd itself for risking her neck. “Arobynn Hammel? Teaching me to hide?”

Chaol frowned deeper. “Arobynn Hammel? The King of Assassins? _That’s_ The Stone?”

“No, you stupid dick.” She kicked out at him, but he was too far to reach, and it only hurt her stomach. “Haven’t you figured it out by now? _I’m_ The Stone. I just don’t like telling people.”

He frowned. “Dorian was right, then.”

“What?”

“Dorian said when he met with the King, the King claimed you were the Stone. He hadn’t believed it, but it makes sense.” The King knew who she was? God, she was going to puke. She was going to cry, then puke, then run away as fast as she could. “Did Hammel train you himself?”

“He trained me, brought others to train me. What does it matter?” Elle asked, shoving her palms into her burning eyes. “No price was too high. I thought it was a gift, till he told me I had to pay back all my expenses.”

“He trained you and made you pay for it?”

She laughed at the affronted honor in his voice. “Courtesans go through the same thing. Trained at a young age, bound for the brothels till they pay back every last little copper for their training, upkeep, wardrobe, and shit, just for the annoyance being taught.” Though whores had a lot harder of time than assassins, in Elle’s opinion. Lyssandra, the most beautiful woman Elle had ever laid her eyes on, had the hardest life Elle had ever seen. All because of that face of hers. That body.

“That’s despicable.” He spat. “Did you pay him back?”

“Yeah. Every last copper.” In a murdering spree that officially cemented Elle’s reputation. Adolin’s Assassin. She had money left over, even, to buy a wedding dress.

There was a long wait of silence, and she let him chew through her new identity. Let him cement her vileness inside his mind. And when the silence became too much, making the pain in her stomach overwhelming, she said, “You haven’t apologized, by the way.”

“For what?” He bit out.

“For the horrible things you said to me two days ago, when you caught Dorian sparring with Nehema.”

He took the bait. He always took the bait. “I won’t apologize for speaking the truth.”

“The truth!” She threw her hands up. Somehow even that hurt. “You treated me like I was a crazed animal about to rip up the royalty with my bare teeth!”

“And you said you hated me more than anyone alive.” He pointed out. Giving her that ‘fatherly’ tone that never failed to grate her teeth.

“I meant every. Fucking. Word of it.” But she was smiling. She couldn’t help it. She reached over and threw the roll of bandages Sorscha had left for her, and it hit him in the chest before he caught it. He was smiling, too. It was the damnest thing. “Idiot.”

“Crazed, murdering criminal.” He motioned with his hand. “Get up, so I can help bind your ribs, fool.”

* * *

It wasn’t till later that he told her the champion who hadn’t shown up for the test had been found mauled, dismembered, and disemboweled in the servant’s stairwell. It left a hanging storm cloud over all the other competitors over the next two weeks as Elle hobbled around and tried to heal. With lovely Sorscha’s help—and her ability to quickly mix numbing pain medication—Elle managed to get through the next two back-to-back tests. Stealth and tracking, which Elle droned through, broken ribs or not, with absolute ease.

No other competitors were murdered. But she still found herself looking over her shoulder constantly as she started leaving her rooms before dawn again, to return and grab new books. She’d even found a couple booklets of music sheets, which helped alleviate the boredom of being stuck in her room.

Elle healed quickly. She always had. In no time she was struggling to run beside Chaol. Though she still just sat there, doing nothing, during the training sessions. Playing up the injury.

And the Prince didn’t bother to come by and see her. She hadn’t seen him at any of the tests, so she figured he was confident enough in her skills. That, or embarrassed enough that he’d slept with her. A part of her was glad, though. Because she shouldn’t have fallen into her worse impulses and slept with him.

She shouldn’t have slept with Cain, either. But he’d been there, sweaty and strangely handsome in the training room. They’d had a rare time where Chaol had let her be by herself—he was doing that a lot lately—and Cain's trainer had decided to go off and do something. No guards had been aware they were there. And she’d walked into the room, looked at him, and just felt it. The heat. The need. The desire to be filled and satiated.

It was had a furious fucking. All teeth and claws and bites and hip pumping. He’d held her down on the floor and said filthy things into her ear about sluts and ripping her pussy apart as he nearly strangled her—but it had been hot. Seriously hot. And, because he wasn’t a Prince, he knew what would come after. They parted with a mutual understanding that at the end of it all, they were nothing but rivals. And hopefully, with his absence, Dorian was proving he got the same message.


	14. Sam II

Sam sighed softly into her skin, before licking away some of the sweat that covered her. It tickled, and she smacked at his arm, giggling, pretending to get away so that he would keep doing it. His arms—surprisingly strong, muscled arms—wrapped a little tighter around her as he nuzzled his face in deeper. He was still inside her, but soft now, and he slipped out as his fingers danced across her skin.

“Stop! Stop!” She wailed, twisting around.

“Never.” He teased, but he did stop, and he got up onto his elbows, his soft brown eyes so warm and happy and wonderful. She loved the way he looked at her. Loved the way she felt, being with him. Looking at him.

She reached up and touched his face. “We should go.”

“Yeah. We should.” He dipped his head down and gave her a quick kiss on the lips, before jumping out of the massive bed. He’d decided to surprise her with a little date—and they’d broken into the house of some Lord who’d gone away to his Winter Mansion somewhere else. The house was gloriously empty, and she’d put on fancy dresses and shimmering jewelry as he made her dinner. Then they’d smashed everything and fucked on every available surface. It was probably the best date she’d ever had.

He reached for his clothes but stopped to look at her. “Elle..”

“What?” She was still lying in bed, gloriously naked. She stretched across the fine, now damp sheets. Ran her fingers through her hair. Watched as his eyes tracked her gently swaying knee, before she let it fall, exposing her to him.

He surprised her though, he was always surprising her. “What happens if you get pregnant?”

“What?” She laughed. “I won’t get pregnant.”

His eyebrows drew together. He dropped his clothes and crawled back into bed, so he lay facing her on his side. His fingers trailed up and down her belly, on the faint scars left there. As a test, her Master had tied her up and threw her down in a cellar, telling her to get free or die. There had been rats. And they had found her belly delicious. “Is this…”

It would be easier to lie. “No, not because of that.” She said, smiling. She reached over and dug her hands through his hair. It had gotten longer. It suited him.

“Then… has Hammel given—”

“Master.”

He rolled his eyes. “Fine. Has Master done anything, to prevent you from getting pregnant?”

Only the seriousness of his eyes kept her from snarking. She turned, to face him. He lowered himself down, so they were on the same pillow. Nose to nose. So she saw nothing but his beautifully warm eyes. “No. He hasn’t done anything. No herbs. No surgeries. Nothing. I just can’t get pregnant.” And because she could see the confusion on his face, she added. “At least, I haven’t. Several years with a period and lots of sex, you’d think if I could, it would have happened by now.”

“Oh. Yeah. Your right.” He rolled onto his back, but not before she saw the hot flash of possessive anger in his eyes. She hated it when he did this. When he expected her to not have a past. It wasn’t as if he was a virgin when they met, either. Still, she crawled up and sat on his hips. So he would be forced to look at her, clamped jaw or not.

“Hey, come on.” She ran her hands up and down his chest. He had the softest chest hair. “You know—”

“Does he still—do you guys still fuck?” He asked, still refusing to look at her.

She stilled. “No. I told you. The second we started getting serious, I—” She’d paid her Master all her debt and bought a wedding dress. But she didn’t want to tell Sam that, didn’t want to expose the depth of her feelings for him. She didn't know why she was scared. It wasn't as if he didn't love her. And she had no doubts that if she asked, they would get married. But something held her back every time. A cold breeze. An anxious feeling. Arobynn Hammel's presence. “I dodge his advances. You’ve seen.”

“But you still haven’t told him you’re with me.”

Frustrating male. Elle leaned back. “No. I told you. He’ll do something—and I don’t want—”

“We have to tell him, Elle.” Sam sat up, grabbing her so she wouldn’t fall of his lap. “For me, tell him. Tell him that you and I are together.”

But Sam didn’t understand. Her Master was… her Master. He’d found her. Raised her. Trained her. And when she was ready, he taught her the finer skills of sex and seduction, the only training that she hadn’t received up to that point. And he refused to let her train anyone else in those finer techniques. He’d screamed and raged when he found her using those skills to get to a Mark. If her Master found out she was serious about Sam…

“Forget it. Nevermind.” Sam bit out. He pushed her away and got up. Shoved his pants on while she sat in bed.

“I don’t know how to fix this, Sam.”

“Yeah. You do.” He spat, not even putting on his shirt as he headed for the door. “You just won’t.”

He slammed the door behind him, so she only spoke to herself when she said, “But he’ll kill you.”


	15. Small Changes

# Dorian Havilliard

Dorian was glad the temple services with over and done with, as he walked the castle grounds. Religion had its place, it seemed, he’d always thought of it as a way of bringing communities together, healing the broken, and a great way to get soldiers and politician into tight, moral corners—but sitting in a pew for hours while everyone mumbled prayers and his mother talked to him about eligible marriages made him want to scream.

He wanted fresh air. Solitude.

He rubbed his temple, trying to take away the throbbing in it as he headed through the garden. A few clusters of ladies smiled and curtsied to him as he walked past, and they brightened his day a little as they called after him.

And then he saw the one girl in the entire world that _didn’t_ brighten his day.

She wearing one of those maiden-dresses again. The kind that had no corset, with a jeweled rope wrapped around her hips. It was pure white, too, further adding to the illusion of purity and innocence and youth that she flawlessly put together with her streaming gold-red hair and her doll face. Too bad he knew how much of a lie it was. How her face looked as her mouth opened and moans came tumbling out before she threw her head back and rubbed shamelessly on his cock. 

He’d been thinking about it too much, actually. Thinking about the horrible way she’d kicked him out like a dog who’d pissed on the carpets.

Still, he smiled. Turned his gaze to the Princess beside her, who was the first that he should bow to and greet. “Hello, Princess Nehema. Lady Lillian. Captain Westfall.” He said, lifting, meeting Elle’s eyes without thought. They shone, the light giving them more tints of green than usual because of the khol she used. He turned to Nehema. He never thought, in a hundred years, that she would be the safest option. “ _Forgive me,”_ He said, in his best Ellyew. He tried not to notice how the Princess winced. “ _How are you?_ ”

She arched her chin. “I am well, Your Highness.” She said, in common tongue. Dorian found his eyes flickering to her two towering, dark-toned guards as they stood a distance away, waiting, watching.

For weeks now, Duke Parrington had been pushing for a plan to bring more forces into Ellyew—to crush the rebels so efficiently that they wouldn’t dare challenge Adolin’s rule again. Just yesterday, the Duke presented a plan: they would deploy more legions and keep Nehema here to discourage any retaliation from the rebels. Not particularly inclined to add hostage-taking to his repertoire of abilities, Dorian had spent hours arguing against it. But while some of the council members had also voiced their disapproval, the majority seemed to think the Duke’s strategy to be a sound one. Still, Dorian had convinced them to back off about it until his father returned. That would give him time to win over some of the Duke’s supporters.

If he were anyone but the Crown Prince, he would warn her. But if Nehema left before she was supposed to, the Duke would know who had told her, and inform his father. Things were bad enough between Dorian and the King; he didn’t need to be branded as a rebel sympathizer.

“Are you going to the feast tonight?” He asked her, forcing civility.

She looked to Elle. Said something in her rapid Ellyew. Her hand motion, he recognized. A question mark, because apparently the damn language didn’t _have_ question marks. Or punctuation, in the normal sense of the word. His tutors had explained it to him, as he attempted to brush up on the subject. The language’s grammar was centered around a cohesive whole, a set of beats that could be counted by syntax. It was supposed to make a conversation into a song, with different parts added by different conversationalists. Which made punctuation useless. And conversations a Wyrd cursed complexity of not only finding the right thing to say, but the right way to say it without sounding like a two-year-old who didn’t know their poetry.

Dorian got the gist of it, though. Nehema wanted to know if Elle was going.

Elle was smiling. That damn smile that meant trouble was on its way in the form of a tiny, beautiful little red-head that shimmered and glowed with warmth. “Unfortunately,” She said, in common tongue—which sparked a bit of fire in Nehema’s eyes—“I have other plans.” A hand motion. A negation? She clasped her fists together and spread her fingers out wide as they separated. “Isn’t that right, Chaol?” Ah, so the words were for Chaol?

Chaol, next to her, his arm offered up for her little hand, which looked positively ridiculous on his body, coughed. “Don’t blame him.” Dorian defended smoothly. “You accepted that invitation for tea with the Earl weeks ago.” Bringing Elle anywhere near festivities would be too hard. Someone would always have to be watching her, while _everyone_ would be watching her. And then the questions would come flooding in. It was one thing to have her in the caste, and another to parade her around.

Nehema frowned. “So you’re not going?”

“No, but—” A long, complicated string of Ellyewan he couldn’t hope to follow. Something along the lines of ‘His Highness certainly knows how to keep a woman entertained’—if that were true, why was she being so cold?

“Well, we’re very import and busy.” Elle said to him, letting go of Chaol’s arm to link her fingers with the Princess’s longer, sturdier, darker ones. The intimacy of the movement surprised him, especially considering Ellyewans’ only did it with close friends and family. “We must be off. Good day to you, Your Highness.” They walked further into the garden.

“Thanks, for your help. I can’t figure out how to tell her these things.” Chaol said, taking away Dorian’s attention from watching her belted hips swing back and forth.

“Why are you letting them be alone? Didn’t you freak out, the last time the two were even in a room together?”

Chaol shook his head. “It was a mistake.”

“You’ve grown soft on her.” Dorian accused.

Chaol’s eyebrows narrowed in. “And so have you, apparently, but in an entirely different way.” Dorian’s eyes widened. “You didn’t sleep with her, did you?”

Gods curse him! Could he even call what they did sleeping together if he felt so conflicted after? He felt like a used and cheap whore. “What are _your_ intentions with her, Chaol?”

Chaol’s eyebrows drew deeper together. The corners of his mouth went down farther. “For one, she is far, far too young for me. Two,” He shook his head. “It’s not like that. And for three—”

“Gods, how long is this list?”

“For three, you need to stop. Whatever’s got you so out of character, friend,” Chaol put his hand on Dorian’s shoulder, clapping him soundly. “It is not good for you. Especially if it has anything to do with Elle.” Dorian felt his eye twitch. “She is damaged. She chews people up and spits them out, and your heart is too big for someone like that. Please, stay away from her.” Sincerity warned his eyes.

Dorian shook his head. He’d already been spat out. “I need to check on the kennels.”

Chaol stepped back, bowed, and walked to follow the girls.


	16. Scary Things Last

# Elle

Elle ran her finger across a neatly trimmed hedge as Chaol, speaking very slowly, told Nehema, “No, Your Highness, I’m not a solider. I’m a guard.”

“Difference there is not.” She retorted, her accent thick, unweilding, her frustration over the conversation leading her to a different pattern of speech. Elle grinned, fingers trailing over soft, waxy leaves as Chaol bristled.

She’d managed to see Nehema a fair amount over these past few weeks. Mostly just brief walks and dinners, but she’d gotten to know the Princess. They’d discussed her brothers, what it was like growing up in Ellyew, what she thought of Rifthold, who had court had managed to annoy her wonderfully short temper. To Elle’s delight, absolutely _everyone_ annoyed her.

“I’m not trained to fight in battles.” Chaol said, through gritted teeth.

“You kill on the orders of your King.” Quickly, not looking up, Elle signaled for caution. But the Princess knew what she was doing, knew the power of those two words: ‘your King’. And while Elle could sit and listen to the Princess rant for hours about the distaste for King Havilliard, they were in a public place, speaking to a man with the wyvern embroidered over his heart.

“Arguing with her is useless, Chaol.” She said, turning from the hedges. “She’ll just crush you under her big brain. Perhaps, to lose all this confusion, you should go the easy route. Go back to Annielle, reclaim your title as Lord from Terrin, and inevitably have her win anyway.”

Nehema smirked, showing off her mastery of the common language, and how she was just fucking with Chaol. Not that he noticed, because he was frowning softly at Elle. “You remember my brother’s name?”

“Of course. You told it to me a while ago.” She waved away the softness in his eyes and turned to Nehema. “ _You’ll have fun at the feast, by the way. There is no need to grow petty_.”

Nehema huffed and spoke in the common language. It was delightful, to realize there was a woman behind the rebel Princess. Elle was growing quickly and throughout in love with the woman, and Elle found herself adoring even her bad tempers. “I will bring you food, since your previous appointment is so much more important.”

Elle clasped a hand to heart and dropped down, nearly making Chaol crash into her. “Princess! You honor me!”

She gave me a vulgar symbol, her lips curving up into a full smile. “ _Get up, fool_.”

Elle got up, using Chaol’s offered hand to do it. “Is it really that upsetting, missing the feast?” He asked, frowning. “It’s just a feast. Food, music. Nothing more.”

“All things I love.” Elle pointed out.

He frowned, nodding. “It really isn’t that exciting.” He tried. “It’s the same as any supper, and the lamb will be dry and tough, as always.”

“As my friend, you should bring me along.”

“Friend?”

Was he really that surprised? She arched an eyebrow at him, before scoffing at his dumbfounded expression. “Fine, you can be forever my ‘scowling escort’.”

“You will teach me.” Nehema decided, out of the blue. She squeezed Elle’s hand, which she had tightly clasped in her own. It was a wonderful thing, holding hands. She’d have to go to Ellyew someday just to thank the people for inventing the friendly custom. So much better than holding someone’s arm. “You will teach me how better to speak this horrid language, so I do not have to suffer these tutors they shove at me.” She leaned forward. “ _They smell of garlic,_ Elle _. Garlic._ ”

“I would love—” She stopped short. They would never let her teach Nehema, it would require them to spend hours and hours together and she had to fight tooth and nail just for escorted walks and dinners. “I don’t know how to properly teach a language.” She lied.

“Nonsense.” She slashed her hands, calling Elle on her lie in two ways. “ _You will teach me. For an hour every day before supper_.” There was no fighting her, not with that stubborn look on her elegant, smooth face. 

They both looked at Chaol, and he seemed to want to take a step back, at the demand in both of their eyes. “It’s not possible.” He said.

Nehema’s eyes narrowed in a frosty glare. “Why not?”

“I don’t think that—”

“Am I not Princess of Ellyew?”

“Ooohhh.” Elle bit her knuckles but didn’t even pretend to fight her smile. “She’s got you there, old man.”

“Your Highness,” Chaol began, but Elle stopped listening. Because they were nearing the clock tower. And Cain was kneeling near it, facing the nearest face so his back was to them. His head was bent low as he focused on the ground right where a gargoyle was pointing. At the sounds of them approaching—and Chaol vainly trying to tell Nehema that she couldn’t have what she wanted despite having no feasible excuse—Cain’s head shot up. Their eyes connected, before he gave a broad grin and stood. His hands were covered in dirt, and he shoved them in his pockets to better hide them before striding away.

“ _Who is he, that man?_ ” Nehema asked, cutting Chaol’s protests off. Her eyes were following Cain.

“ _He used to be a_ White Fanger _,”_ Elle muttered. “ _Though he now works for the Duke Parrington_.”

“ _He is dangerous,_ Elle _.”_

 _“The tower is too. Do you see the symbol he was kneeling before? It is a magic thing, though I can’t figure out why it's here or what it means. Usually the symbols would be placed in the ground to concentrate the force of earth or channel air—but it was placed there after the magic disappeared_.” They walked to the symbol, to stare down at it. It was the triangular one, with several different lines and spirals coming off it in complicated waves. “ _He cleaned it_.” Elle realized. He’d been brushing off the mud that had formed on it after the last rainfall.

“ _It’s a_ Wyrdmark.” The Princess said, voice dull, flat.

A jolt ran through Elle. The word was in the common tongue. And wyrd… “ _Demons?_ ” Demon’s hadn’t been seen since the Second Great War, the one Queen Elena and King Adolin had fought—along with half the bloody world.

She made a ‘yes-no’ signal. “ _Different from how it is taught in religion. But roughly, yes, a symbol of magic for the demons. It’s part of a magic that died a long, long time ago_.”

Elle told her about how she’d noticed them and had grown largely obsessed with them.

Elle explained how she left her room at dawn, and she’d been reading books to study what she could, how it always led to a dead end. “ _If it’s a religion, though…”_ There had to be book on the subject that hadn’t been destroyed.

“ _Leave it be,”_ Nehema said tightly. “ _It was forgotten for a reason_.”

“ _And that reason would be?_ ” When Nehema refused to answer, she crouched down. Touched the tile Cain had cleaned with her fingers. Maybe the stones predated the clock tower, but there was no way to explain how perfectly it aligned with the gargoyle, even by design. Not unless a tower had been here before, and happened to fit the right design. No, the King had done this intentionally.

She looked to Nehema, to ask more questions, and found the Princess frowning heavily at her. No—not her. Her forehead. She touched it, to see if there was anything there but smooth skin. “ _What_?”

The Princess’s eyes focused on her own with a ferocity so strong that it made something inside Elle flare up. She felt attacked. Slowly, she rose as Nehema said, “ _You know nothing about the Wyrdmarks?_ ” Elle signaled that it was fact. Absolute. But it didn’t appease the glare any. “ _You are hiding something from me, Elle. You are not what you appear_.”

Elle felt her body tense. She felt herself lower down into that cool space where everything was so much sharper, where she was so much deadlier. She narrowed her eyes right back at Nehemia, and Chaol came forward, to take her attention away, to make them drop the tension. Elle refused. She would not back down, not from her friend, who’d suddenly turned dangerous. “ _I would hope I’m more than just a simpering courtier._ ” And then she flashed a smile.

Nehema seemed to consider that. Finally, she said, _“Will you teach me, then?_ ” A challenge, which wasn’t signaled by hands. It didn’t need to be. Their conversation was not done.

“ _Yes. Just don’t tell him_.” She didn’t look at Chaol. Didn’t say his name. “ _He leaves me alone in the late evenings, an hour or two after supper is perfect. Be careful with the guards.”_

“ _I’ll be there tomorrow at seven_.” She turned and walked away. And Elle didn’t have it in her to follow. She hoped, desperately, that her friendship with Nehema wouldn’t turn out like all the others.

“What was that about, Elle?” Chaol asked, frowning after the Princess and her perpetually silent guards.

“An argument.” Elle shook her head. “Come on, I’m starving.”

* * *

She played hours into the night, well past midnight. And when she was exhausted, she walked back to her room. Moonlight from the windows glowed on the tapestry-covered wall. It was old, older and poorly preserved, the dyes in the woven fabric fading, so the images of forest animals and drooping trees looked faded. Oldy enough, the woman at the bottom—the only human figure on the tapestry—was not faded. She was life-sized, remarkably beautiful. She had silver hair, a middle-aged face, her white gown seeming to move in the moonlight—

No. It _was_ moving. Because the tapestry was moving.

She glanced at the windows. It was shut. She glanced at the door. It was shut. And the tapestry was breathing outward, not to the side.

And the dimensions in the room had always bothered her.

Elle moved to it quickly, heart galloping in her chest. She grabbed the edge and pushed it away, fingers trailing against cold stone. But her fingers still found the gentle vertical groove, deeper and longer and straighter than all the rest of the faded stone. And another, not three feet from it. It was a door. A stone door meant to be pushed in and slid to the side.

Had she found a secret passageway? A sneak room? She’d heard that the castle was littered with them. King Brannon, the Wildheart, The Fire Blessed, had built the place thousands of years ago, and Elle’s mother would tell stories about his devious nature. How he’d built secret passageways and twisting locks and funny rooms because he’d thought that castles were boring without them. He’d built the castle in Orynth, the Terra capital, too. Elle used to spend most of her time with Aedion, searching for them, always finding new secrets.

It could be just a secret room, or it could be something better.

She shoved against the stone. Shoved with all her weight and strength behind it, bare feet slipping a little as there was—finally—a give. The door groaned, and she stilled. Waited for a guard outside to hear. Nothing. She pushed out more. And when it clicked into place, she dug her fingers into the side and shoved it sideways.

A dark passageway loomed before her. A breeze—like wet stone and roses—filled up from the black depths, playing with her hair.

Grinning, she rushed out of the bedroom. She felt like she was a kid again, and almost turned to look over her shoulder to make a bet with Aedion on what they would find. But he wasn’t there. He was thousands of miles up north, with his war-band. So she skipped into her dressing room alone, grabbing a cloak. Putting on the thick-soled boots that she wore to practice, and shoved candles and an apple into the pockets of her gown. The last candle, she shoved onto the spike of a holder, so the wind wouldn’t knock the flame down. She wished she had a knife. And a piece of chalk, in case tricky old Brannon had decided to make this tunnel confusing. But she’d just stick to the right, so when she needed to come back, she only had to go left.

She skipped back to the tunnel, boots clomping along with her heart.

It was cold inside, and dry, covered in dust but not cobwebs. She took the stairs down, two or three at a time, since they were solid stone. It was a very long stairwell down. Probably leading further than the dungeons. She got to the bottom eventually, and found three passageways, all covered in dust. No one had been here in a long, long time.

She lifted the candle high, to see if Brannon marked any of the doorways like he had in Orynth. Brannon had a tricky system, but she and Aedion had cracked it as kids, with the help of some doting, amused tutors. Flame meant a temple-room, a circle meant a particularly convoluted path that led to a fun puzzle, an eye meant a spy-hole. The marks, however, were either too faded or had never been put down. The walls above the doorways were blank.

She should go right. But instead, she went towards the middle.“Scary things last.” She whispered, as if Aedion were still with her. It had been there one and only rule while exploring. Scary things last, so they could run for the hills without feeling cheated.

And as the hall went on, the moisture increased, and things got warm. Fungus started to grow, as the grounds and walls grew slick. But the hall itself was even, and she was careful with how she stepped.

It ended up leading to the sewer system, connecting right to the river outside of the castle. There were a few rotting boats and gate, but nothing substantial. She turned and walked back, to go down the left path that led up for several stories, turned into a long, winding hallway, and eventually ended at a spy-hole above the Great Hall.

Where they were having a feast. She looked over hundred of people eating, singing, dancing, playing. Her eyes searched eagerly for a familiar face. For Nehema. Or Dorian, or anyone. She was surprised when she saw—Nox. He was wearing a fine suit, dressed elegantly, laughing as he swung a partner around with the ground in the center. She searched more frantically, realizing that there were other competitors down there. Even Cain.

Her eyes found Chaol. He was laughing. And he’d said these things were no fun. But, he’d also said that contestants weren’t allowed.

She watched him get up and leave. It’s what had drawn her gaze to him.

What if he was getting up to go check on her? He wouldn’t—at least he hadn’t in the past—but the idea of him catching her out of her rooms, of feeling the strange breeze behind the fluttering tapestry had her heart freezing. She rushed out of the small hallway, blowing away her candle and then running through the pitch black of the hallway. When it felt like she’d gone on too long, she lit it again, and rushed the rest of the way—cursing as the flame kept dying—to reach the stairs.

She found herself back in her empty rooms. No sign of him. She put the candle down, closed the door, and then flung herself into bed.

But no—she was too anxious. And clothed. It made no sense. She got up. Paced.

What if he was just going to bed? She wanted to go back down there. Look at the other passageway.

In the end, her anxiety filled her too strongly. She found herself in front of her pianoforte.


	17. Ashryver Eyes

# Dorian Havilliard

Dorian found himself at Elle’s doorstep, so tired from dancing and drinking that he felt like he could collapse where he stood. He nodded drunkenly to the guards, nearly stumbling into one, but pushed them off when they told him to go to his own bed.

When he walked in, he was both surprised and unsurprised to hear the sound of the piano. It was an excited, rushed melody that greeted him, reminding him of the festivities he’d just left. Was she up, creating her own feast? Food lay scattered across her table. And the music…

The idea of her all alone, attempting to recreate the feast he’d just left by herself made his chest ache. He stilled, wobbling, confused by his ache as he clutched his shirt. He should go see her. Talk to her. Bring her a little of the revelry.

But then footsteps reached his ears and a guard grabbed at his shoulder. “Go away!” He yelled, flapping his arm, spinning to glare at the guard—only it wasn’t a guard. It was Chaol, tight faced and brooding.

The music behind Dorian stopped as Chaol thundered forward. “What are you doing here?” He demanded. He grabbed Dorian, and tried shoving him out, but Dorian went limp in his arms, forcing himself to sit down.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Dorian countered, hiccupping.

“I could ask why the both of you are here.” Elle came forward. There was a brightness to her eyes, which had matched the music she was playing. Did she like that, two men coming to her room late at night to fight for her wicked attention?

Dorian swayed, glaring up at her. She wasn’t looking at him, though, of course not. She was looking at Chaol, an eyebrow raised. “Dorian, get up.” Chaol said, grabbing for him. Dorian flapped the hands away. He decided to lay down on the ground. “Dor—”

“That’s crowned _Prince_ to you, Goodman.” He said, holding a hand up and watching his own finger wave through the air. And then that finger touched something soft, and lovely which shined. He grabbed at the golden-red strands falling over Elle’s face as she peered curiously at him. “Last time you were above me like this—totally different sit-situation.” He laughed.

“My my, a drunken Prince at my door.” She teased, looking up at Chaol, still bowed over him, since he was holding her hair. “What are you doing here?”

“Following this idiot. I warned him not to get involved with you. Does he listen? No.” Chaol hissed. He grabbed for Dorian, hauling him up off the floor as he lay there, limp, holding her hair.

“You like her, admit it!” Dorian yelled.

“Shut up!” Chaol kicked the door shut, blocking out the guards who were peering inside as Elle laughed and laughed and laughed. He liked the joy of the sound, and it made him laugh.

“Get him to the couch, then.” She said, and callused fingers touched his. He didn’t know how, but the silk of her hair slipped out of his grip. “I’ll get him some water to sober him up.”

“I need to take him to his room. The rumors—”

“The rumors will hold. He,” She looked down at him again, strange eyes sparkling, reminding him of something he used to know. “He will not.”

He reached out, watching her wince as his fingers overreached and stabbed her in the cheek. “Pretty eyes. Ashryver eyes.” Aedion. That’s what she reminded him of! Aedion, and his damn wooden sword, constantly whacking at him as a pretty little princess Dorian was supposed to marry laughed and laughed and laughed. “I knew a Princess, once.” Dorian hiccupped, leaning against Chaol as he found himself standing. He watched her, wondering how she could get so still. “She called me a pretty little priss and told me I ate like a woman.” He nodded. “She did. Yes. Then she lit herself on fire.”

“Good Gods, how much did you drink?” Chaol said, and Dorian was shoved towards the couch.

He liked laying down, so he laid down. Sighed and rubbed his cheek against the velvet. He closed his eyes and let the swirling world take him.


	18. A God's Cursed Destiny

# Elle

As she slept, she dreamt.

She was walking down her secret passageway, moving without a candle to guide her straight to the right, towards the smell of damp stone and roses. The passage twisted round and round, descending down deep and deeper on a narrow flight of steps. Like a tower. And then the smell of roses grew fresh, and there was a doorway with an old wooden door and a skull knocker. The skull seemed to be smiling.

She pushed it open. Found a room filled with a soft shaft of moonlight from the ceiling that fell on the beautiful face of a marble statue lying on the floor. No—not a statue. A sarcophagus. The room was a tomb. Along the far wall lay the glittering of gold.

Trees were carved and painted against the ceiling, stretching wide. And stars were painted beautifully against the floor as Elle walked in. There were two sarcophaguses. The woman’s was bathed in moonlight, the man’s in darkness. She looked to the man, first.

Scary things last, as always.

She found the face was depicted with expert craftmanship, bringing the stone features to life. He was handsome, in a sharp, angular way. He had a stone book between his hands, resting along his chest. A crown sat upon his head. Not a stone crown, but a real one, the gold shining and clear, embedded into the stone itself so it rested against the gentle waves of hair.

Elle turned to the woman. Her statue had a crown in it, too. A slender thing, with a blue gem that glowed in the moonlight. Her hair was long, wavy, and spilled around her head and down the sides of the stone slab, so lifelike that she seemed real. Her face was beautiful, mature, and impossibly sad. As if she was crying silently without stone tears. She wore a set of armor, and had a sword resting between her breasts, down her body. But her hands were beside her, fingers gently curled upwards.

“Which Queen are you?” Elle asked, voice echoing across the chamber. She ran her fingertips over gently curved lips, then across a small brow. Her eyes narrowed but couldn’t see the symbol that her fingers felt. She traced it, again and again, but couldn’t figure out what it was. It was unfamiliar to her; a diamond with two arrows piercing its side, a vertical line through its middle.

A wyrdmark. It was a wyrdmark!

She looked around her. At the forest ceiling and starry floor. Found… more wyrdmarks. Countless wyrdmarks, more than she recognized, but she knew them, for their strangeness. Some were small, some made up larger ones, encompassing the entire floor.

She backed up. Looked at the two sarcophaguses. There was something written at the bottom of the Queen’s feet, etched into the stone sharply by a knife: _Ah! Time’s Rift!_

She looked at the Queen again. Looked past the vivid depiction of hair. Found—ah, there they were. Sharply pointed ears, elongated and pointing backwards from her face. She was Queen Elena, first Princess of Terra, Brannon’s daughter, first Queen of Adolin, King Adolin’s wife and mate. The warrior Queen.

Elle felt rooted to the ground—no, to the stars. She felt rooted and unable to move, trapped by the cosmos and held down by great, terrible things.

She felt as if she shouldn’t have entered the tomb. That it was dangerous, being here, and for the first time in forever her fear made her tremble, instead of fight.

She looked towards the far wall, away from the dead that terrified her. There were the usual sets of priceless jewels and spilling coins from massive chests. But there was also a sword, prominently displayed, beside a suit of golden armor meant for a lithe and tall woman. Elle knew the sword. It was legendary, that sword. With it’s sharp, unchipped, unrusted blade, and it’s golden handle with the decorative pommel. It had been Elena’s sword, crafted by her before her maturity, made from the metal of OaksHeart Iron. It had been wielded by her in the Second Great War. It had slaughtered the Dark Lord Erawan, the Demon King.

“Damaris.” She whispered the blade’s name. Terrified. Wholly and utterly terrified.

She wasn’t surprised when a voice spoke. “You know your history.” The voice was lilting, female, accented strangely. Elle felt the warm trickle of piss between her legs as a whimper left her limps. As something sharp stabbed into her chest and the fear shook her physically.

The voice sighed.

Elle looked. Looked to the devastatingly beautiful woman standing there, on the stars. Her silver hair flowed around her like the moonlight streaming over her the stone-depiction of her face, parting only for the sharp points of her ears and her lean, sorrowful face. Her eyes were a crystalline, constantly changing, constantly reflecting new light as if a rainbow was trapped inside of them. “Are you a ghost?” Elle whispered.

“Not quite,” Queen Elena said, full lips moving, flashing the point of fangs. Single fangs. Not double, like was normal. No one knew who Elena’s mother was, it was never recorded down in history, and Brannon Wildfire had been an eccentric man with no regards to policy or royal procedure—he’d disappeared from his court for a century and came back with a baby, saying it was his, and that his Mate, or lack thereof, should never be mentioned before him. And that Elena shouldn't be looked down upon because she was a half-breed.

Elle nearly collapsed as a solid, cool hand touched her forehead, then dropped. “I’m not alive, but my spirit doesn’t haunt this place.” Elena looked away. Her movements were off. Too smooth, too elegant. Inhuman. “I’ve risked too much by coming here tonight.”

“Risked…” There was no question. It was a risky, seeing the dead. Nothing good ever came out of things that slipped through the Veil.

“I cannot stay here long, and neither can you.” The Queen said, shaking long, silvery hair that streamed and glowed. “They are distracted now, but soon…” She trailed off, her voice drifting away as she took in her mate’s stone face. Was his spirit somewhere else right now, distracting something?

“Who? Who needs distracting?”

“The four guardians; you know of whom I speak.”

There was only one thing that made sense, anyway. “The gargoyles. On the clocktower.”

She nodded. “I managed to buy some time and slip past—” She moved too quickly. Too smoothly. She grabbed Elle’s arms with strong fingers. It hurt, her grip. “You must listen to what I tell you. Nothing is coincidence. Everything has purpose, the Gods—” She cut herself off. “You were meant to come to this castle, led here, just as you were led to be an assassin, that night at the river. To learn the skills of survival.”

Elle swallowed the barf rising in her throat, entering her mouth. Still, the Queen continued on. “There is something evil here, in the castle. It makes the borders quake, its malice echoes across the worlds. You must stop it. Forget your friendships, forget your debts and oaths. Forget _him_ —” Her eyes drifted to King Adolin’s stone face again, her own tightening in heartbreak. “He is lost to you. She made sure of it. Even if you did meet, he would not recognize you, and you would not love him." 

Elle opened her mouth. Was Elena talking about her _mate?_ Elle had... Elle had a mate. She had a mate!

"You must destroy it,” Elena's eyes flashed, rainbows sparkling across the tip of her nose, across Elle’s face. “You must win this competition and stay close to the King’s side. You understand the people’s plight. Erilea needs you as the Champion.”

“A Champion is not what he wants.” Elle protested, fear taking hold, making her desperate. She tried to scramble away, but the Queen’s hold was unforgivingly tight. She yanked and struggled anyway, reminded of the chains that had been up around her wrists, constantly ripping into her skin. “It’s not a Champion! A Champion requires a blood oath, a soul-bond, and I will never give it to him!”

“Not to him, you aren’t _his_ Champion. Your oath would be to Erilea.” Elena let go of one of Elle’s arms to reach into the fold of her armor, into a cleverly hidden pocket that rested between the two breasts under the metal plate. “They must not catch you here. If they do, all’s lost. Wear this.” She pushed something cold into Elle’s chest. “It will protect you from harm.”

Elena paused. A tear rolled down her face.

“You were led here tonight. But not by me. I was led here, too. They want you to learn—to see.” Her head snapped up at something Elle couldn’t see. “They’re coming. _Go!”_ She shoved Elle with so much strength, she tumbled across the floor, across the stars. Elle scrambled up, ran, and didn’t look back.

* * *

Elle snapped her eyes open, chest heaving. She was wearing her nightgown, and she was cold, and wet, and the stench of piss covered her legs and the sheets of her bed, which she was tangled in.

She was clutching something metal in her hand. A coin-sized amulet that rested on a delicate chain. It was made out of two overlapping circles, on onto of the other, and in the space they shared was a small blue gem. It looked like an eye. And a line ran down the center, like a crack.

Magical artifacts had been relatively common, before the magic disappeared. Elle herself had had three magically alive books—one had turned into a raven, the other liked to eat and absorb other books, and the third tended to suck a person’s mind into its everchanging pages. She’d had more than seven or eight magical weapons, all doing their own unique things. And all the jewelry she’d been given had been like this amulet: magically enhanced with a purpose in mind. Her favorite, as a child, had been the magical ring that created a psychic bond to its match’s owner. Aedion had given it to her, and it didn’t matter if he was right next to her, across the room, or in another part of Terra; they would constantly talk to each other, whispering secrets and silly observations in each other’s ears.

Once magic fell, they all became useless. A book would be a book, a sword a sword, a piece of metal twisted around into a pretty shape was just jewelry. But this amulet felt different. It felt alive, pulsing with magic.

Maybe because it was designed into the shape of a wyrdmark?

How could the wyrd-magic exist, though? How could demon’s magic exist when even the God’s given gifts of air, fire, water, and earth couldn’t?

The clocktower. It had to do with the clocktower. And the gargoyle guardians..

She got up slowly. The piss made her nightgown cling to her legs, so she stripped it off. Then the sheets, for good measure, shoving them into the corner before she put on the amulet. Naked, she walked her apartment. Chaol was slumped over in her favorite chair that he’d pulled from the balcony, and heard Dorian’s drunken snores. She was weirdly glad that they were here. Their presence, despite how _close_ Dorian had come to the truth, made her feel stronger.

She walked to her bathing room. Her mind was carefully and totally blank as she sat there, waiting for the tub to fill. When the steam rose and the tub was nearly overflowing, she got inside. Felt the water scald her as it cascaded down onto the tiles.

It had been a long, long time since she’d dream-walked. And she’d never dream-walked with a presence from the other side of the Veil. Even before magic had dropped, it was impossible to talk to the dead.

But lots of things that were impossible were happening. No one thought magic could just _disappear_ from Erilea, but it had. No one thought the Princess of Terra could survive the purge, but Elle had. No one thought the King of Adolin could conquer a continent, but he had. And now the dead were coming to talk to the living. And a strange magic existed when no other magic did. And Elle had been given a God’s fated mission.

And she had a mate, out there, somewhere. Someone made just for.

She closed her eyes, felt the stress and fear resting inside her body. She focused on it, tried to loosen it, but it wouldn’t go away.

Someone was leading Elle, and she had a feeling it was beyond her control. Fucking Gods. This is why she didn’t pray to them. They were always meddling about, doing dangerous, inexplicable things to ruin Elle’s life. First, they’d given her the flame of her magic, a flame so strong, so violent, that her own mother had been terrified of its strength. Now this?

There was no questioning it, though. If she tried, she’d find her actions led her to where they wanted her to go. She would always be led to the same conclusion; only one path was easier, and the other was painful. Like the choice her Master had given her so long ago, she needed to slam the door and break her hand to avoid the pain of worse things.

She was going to end up winning the competition. And she was going to end up stuck here in the castle as the King’s contest winner—the Champion.

Fucking Gods help her. It was already fated.

* * *

She was dressed by the time dawn neared. Chaol woke up as Philippe came in with breakfast, then stilled, seeing the two men sleeping in the living room. “I will go get more meat,” She vowed, placing the trays down on the table and leaving.

“Thank you.” Elle said, before sitting down herself. She was exhausted. Dreamwalking was not the same as sleeping.

“So, when’s the test?” She asked Chaol. He was also blurred eyed and annoyed.

“It’s been canceled.” He lifted up a piece of paper, as if it explained anything. “Another champion was found dead this morning. Xavier—the master thief from Melisande.” The guards must have come last night while she slept to tell him. Yet he’d come back. For what? Dorian’s honor?

“I suppose you think I did it?” She asked, grabbing some rice-gruel and dumping syrup on it.

“I’m hoping you didn’t, considering it was half-eaten.”

She felt her eyebrows arch up. “That’s a pretty far cry from dismemberment and slashing.” She waved away the anger that sparked in his eyes. “I know this, old man. Hey, I bet Cain did it! He’s beastly. And he’s got to have a wicked diet.”

Chaol huffed, then sat down in his usual spot at her table. He was wearing the same party clothes from last night, which were almost as dark as the circles under his eyes. She wondered if he’d slept for more than an hour. She passed him some sugared wine, and he waved it off for water. “I’m glad you can find humor in a man’s murder.”

“Course I can.” She huffed. “And Cain truly is the most likely candidate. You’re from Anielle, you should know how they cannibalize in the White Fangs.”

He rubbed a hand up and down his short hair. “Only out of necessity, though, never out of pleasure, and the act is steeped in ritual so they respect the dead. They'd never just... butcher. It makes no sense, Elle. He’s practically the winner already. He’s won every test, at least. There’s no reason for him to go killing the other champions.”

“You're assuming that the motivation makes sense.” She pointed out. “Or that there even is one, outside of brutal murder. What did he get kicked out of the army for?”

He stilled, then cursed in a very un-Chaol like fashion. “He killed his Captain.”

“Aha!”

“But it was a drunken brawl. Not this… horror.” He looked at the table, his gaze far away and his face set in worn, troubled lines. He had more gray hairs at his temples than when they’d met and the color made his stone face sharper.

“Hey, cheer up. Everyone loves a good mystery.” She said, then started to eat. There was no talking when she ate, at least not the kind of talking Chaol liked, so she got to it. Gave herself the ability to think through the problem as her body moved.

Three contestants all dead. No one else, just a murderer, an army man, and a thief. Neither were very strong competitors, or truly that important to the competition itself. Which meant that they were picked because they were easy to grab. Which meant a guard, or maybe another competitor? But competitors weren’t allowed to fraternize, as a general rule. The trainers all kept them away from each other.

Though she had met Cain. Alone. She knew why Chaol had left her alone, but why was Cain alone that night? Was he often alone? But then, why hadn’t he killed her? She wasn’t foolish enough to think it was because they’d had sex.

It had to be Cain. Somehow. But what did he have to do with it all? Was he the evil in the castle? Sure, he was a bastard of a man, but he hadn’t seemed _evil_. But what did evil even look like? Talk like?

Halfway through breakfast, Philippe came back with meat. She set the plate on the table before making her own way through the food. Unlike Chaol, she had no problem with the savage way Elle ate, and went about her nutrition with at a more sedated pace. Dorian’s gentle snores became background noise as Elle ate well beyond her normal amount, to the point where her stomach was nearly bursting in pain. She needed the protein, though, the calories. Her metabolism always went into overdrive when she was stressed—and she’d never been more stressed in her entire life.

Philippe finished before her. She curtsied to Chaol, before deciding to occupy her time with chores. Elle stiffed as she walked into the bedroom but made no comment as Phillipe walked out with the soiled linens in her arms and left the apartment.

“Why?” Chaol asked. Elle paused—damn, her stomach _ached_ —to look up at him. He was still staring at the table, mind somewhere else.

“Existentially, or…?”

“Why did he come to your rooms last night?” Chaol asked, lifting up his eyes. He judged her heavily, with his gaze.

She sighed. “I was lonely, and in need of creature comfort. It’s rare that I don’t have sex regularly,” She grinned at the look on his face, which kindly told her that he did _not_ want to know that. “And the Prince, as you know, is always available.”

“You seduced him.” He accused.

“Maybe.” Had she, though? She was still riding her anger after the cruel words Chaol had given her. Still feeling trapped, lonely. She’d been thinking of Sam as she played the piano, wondering what it would be like if he was alive and with her. How her life would be different. And then Dorian was just there. Ready to fill the ache in her heart with a mindless moment of pleasure. “But he’s not here because I seduced him. He’s here because I’m a unique challenge. Because I didn’t give him what he wanted.” She had no doubts about that.

“You have to end it, Elle.” He leaned forward. “Please, he cannot be with you. He is the crowned Prince, nearly thirty and still without a wife. Please, he can’t give his heart to you.”

The irony wasn’t lost on Elle. If the King Havilliard hadn’t slaughtered Elle’s family, forcing her into hiding, she would _be_ married to Dorian. No doubt she’d have fallen madly in love with him, too. He was charming, handsome, politically motivated—everything a young, idealistic Princess could ever want from their betrothed. No doubt she’d have thought she was the one woman in the world who could tame him and keep him loyal to their marriage bed.

But that’s not who they were. Not who she was.

She had a mate out there somewhere.

“I have no desire to be with him, Chaol. You know this, or there would be a lot more screaming involved with this conversation. Maybe even a bit of bloodshed.” Her lips twisted, and she watched his own sad smile spread across his face. “It was just sex. And eventually, his ego will lick its wounds and move on.”

“I hope so, Elle.” Exhaustion filled his frame, his face.

“You love him.” She reached over, touching Chaol’s hand. He flipped it, so that her little one could fit in his massive paw. His fingers squeezed. “So I will treat him… gently.”

His eyebrow arched. “I don’t want to know.”

“Good.” They shared a smile, before he found it safe to eat his breakfast. She watched the sun rising up past the walls of the castle as the sun lit up. “Let me know if I can help, with the murders.” He stilled, frowning. “Oh, don’t be so shocked. My profession makes me technically more skilled than you. At least when it comes to killing.” She shrugged. “I’m here if you need me.”

“I shouldn’t trust you.” He was look at her, searching for something on her face. “Why do I trust you? You’re an assassin. A murderer yourself.”

She laughed, and the sound seemed altered the snoring on the couch. She and Chaol both stilled as Dorian’s soft, agonized groan came of the couch. “Get up.” Chaol ordered, walking over to the still moaning Prince.

“Loud.” Dorian whispered. “Why are you in my room?”

“Because you’re not in your room!” Chaol roared. “Instead, you're making a complete fool out of yourself, and worse, going directly against your father’s wishes!”

The King didn’t want Dorian talking to her? Well, that made sense, in its own way.

“What are you talking about?” Dorian groaned, sitting up. He looked around, met Elle’s eyes, then when white. Well, whiter. “Oh Goddess, no.”

She arched an eyebrow. Should she be offended?

Chaol was doing that ‘disappointed father’ routine again, his big arms crossing as his face descended into its usual frown. It was an absolute delight, seeing him do it to someone else. “You have some explaining to do.”

“Hair of the dog, first.” Dorian mumbled, wincing as he got up. He grabbed the goblet she’d offered Chaol before and drank a few gulps. “Oh—my head.” He sat down. “What did I do last night?”

“Came in here, acting a fool—”

“Yes. Yes. I gathered that, since I’m here.” Dorian mumbled. She offered him some of the ham that Philippe had put down. He winced, seeming to understand the horrors of eating once living flesh and muscles as his face turned a little green.

“No. Thank you.” He shook his head. “I am going to bed. My bed.” He corrected, standing.

“No. You are coming with me.” Chaol groused. “There was another murder last night.”

“Gods. No.” He sat back down, eyes closed.

“Yes. Let’s go.” Chaol grabbed his arm, then gave Elle a particularly devastating look. “Training is canceled until I can—”

She was just fine with that. She had an underground tomb in a hidden passageway to explore and ransack. “Go.” She waved a hand in the air.

Dorian paused as he got up. “I didn’t… do anything too embarrassing last night?” Other than expose her secrets like a drunken lunatic? No. She shook her head. “Oh, good. All right. Good day then.” He followed Chaol’s impatient figure out of her apartment.

* * *

A few hours later, she walked to the library.

She’d found nothing in the tomb to give her answers. Nothing that was different from the dream walk, either, and no convenient magical note or puzzle or talking doorknocker that would tell her where to look for evil or how to vanquish it from the castle—and Erilea. In the end, all it had made her do is want to scream.

So she’d called Philippe back. Got dressed in a beautiful gown while they both ignored the elephants in the room. There had been no problems at all, persuading the young guard, Ress, to escort her to the library. Especially not when he nearly fell over himself at the sight of her. He preened a little, with her hand on his upraised arm, smiling at all the lords and ladies that they passed.

And then she smelled it. That rotting, sour tang of death. Ress paused, as if trying to stop them, so she tugged out of his hold and rushed down the halls.

It looks like ‘half eaten’ was a pleasant way to describe Xavier’s corpse. She could see how his chest has been split open, so the cavity was exposed with all the internal organs removed. The man’s long face has been stripped of flesh, muscles and jaw contorted in a scream. And the top of his skull had been sawed off, the brain removed. But then the crowds of guards shifted, and the body was hidden from her.

She looked at the purposeful smears of blood on the wall. Like someone had written something with Xavier’s blood, then whipped it away after the blood had dried. Wyrdmarks. Someone had painted the wall in blood with wyrdmarks. Three, actually, forming an arching line around the body.

Ress came up behind her. Put a hand on her back, murmuring, “We should go, Lady Lillian.” His pale face was bloodless.

“Hmmm… it’s a ritual.” She said, speaking to him, keeping her voice low. “A ritualistic killing.”

“Magic is gone, Lady. Please—I—this is not a place we should be.” Not a place Ress wanted to be, anyway.

Someone approached from the other direction of the hall. Grave, the vicious, rape-eyed assassin. He stared at the body from a distance, eyes taking in everything about Xavier’s body, before they lifted and met her own. She nodded her head down, towards the corpse. “A shame,” She murmured.

Grave chuckled. “Oh yes, such a pity.”

“Please, Lady—”

“Yes, let’s go.” She nodded once more to Graves, then looked to the body for any more details. Whatever had killed Xavier had done it with a knife and brute strength. No claws. Nothing animal. And the bite marks around the exposed insides was human.

Ress rushed her away. He seemed anxious and sick as they entered the library. He didn’t comment once about the books she returned, or the ones she searched through. He held them under one arm as he escorted her down the halls. And didn’t seem to mind in the slightest that they took a detour—away form the dead body—and towards the small courtyard with the clock tower.

She was standing there, staring up at it, when Nehema found her. “ _What is your obsession with this thing?_ ” She asked, coming up to stand next to her. Ress moved back, towards Nehema’s own guards.

Elle shrugged. “ _Do you think they move?_ ”

“ _They’re made of stone, Elle_.” She didn’t sign for absolute, though. Something Elle found… chilling. “ _They do look wicked_.”

“ _The wyrdmarks worry me_.” Elle admitted, looking down at the small symbol on the tile before her feet. None of the four matched the ones around Xavier’s corpse, but there were some in the tomb that had been similar. She just didn’t know enough about it. Like with any magical symbols, the wyrdmarks made up a language, had rules about placement, design, and connection. To figure out why they were there or what they meant, she had to know the language. The meaning. “ _Can you read them? Teach them to me?_ ”

“ _No.”_ She signed absolute, then. And grabbed Elle’s hand, leading her towards the hedges that bordered the courtyard. She waved a hand, and the guards stopped by the clocktower, holding Ress back, too. “ _And you shouldn’t try to discover what they say,”_ She clicked her tongue. “ _Nothing good will come of it_.”

“ _Aye, that I know. But I’ll look anyway_.”

They walked in silence for a minute. “ _Will you come home with me, when I return to Ellyew?_ ” She asked. “ _Come experience our winters. Our celebrations?_ ”

Elle smiled, remembering the winter she’d spent in the Red Desert, training with the Silent Assassins. Ellyewan winters put Adolin summers to shame. “ _I would like that very much_.”

Nehema’s sharp gaze landed on her brow for a moment, before her lips curled into a smile. “ _Good. Pack your bags. Let’s go.”_

Laughing, Elle shook her head. “ _If we go now, we might no be violently murdered_.” She teased, throwing her hip out to smack against the taller, stronger girl’s side.

“ _Ah. Yes. My guards tell me that the man was… very violently slaughtered_.”

“ _Aye. It was bad._ ”

“ _You saw?”_

“ _I did. Yes.”_

“ _My guards weren’t allowed close enough. Tell me the details.”_ Nehema stopped walking.

“ _Are you sure? It’s rather—well, gross_.”

“ _Indulge me_.” She put her fingers to her lips, demanding.

Elle frowned, but gave her what she wanted. She described the bare details, though. Watched the tight, morbid interest play out on the Princess’s elegant features. “ _Smeared? The blood was smeared_?” She asked, stepped closer, whispering as if anyone around could possibly understand. “ _Not splattered_?”

“ _Yes. Someone rubbed the blood there, to cover wyrdmarks placed on the ground around the body. But most of the marks are gone._ ” Elle looked into her eyes, saw a spark of something, a sharp intelligence that the Princess didn’t seem to want to share. “ _And the man was missing some organs. He’d been split open, and there were teeth marks around the edges of the flesh leading into the cavity, suggesting he was eaten—I told you, Nehema. It’s a gross subject_.” She smiled at the ashen pallor of the Princess’s face.

“ _Tell me more, please_.”

Sighing, Elle said, “ _His brain was missing, too. The skin on his face had been taken off. Not ripped but cut away.”_ She was Nehema stand there, swaying a little. Her hands were fisted the soft, breezy fabric of her loose Ellyewan dress. Her hair, piled up high on her head by a silk scarf, didn’t move in the breeze, but the smell of her hair, the products, filled Elle’s nose with a comforting scent. “ _Nehema, I need to know what’s going on_ —”

A step sounded. Elle whirled to see Cain standing nearby, standing among the hedges. The smaller shadow of Verin stood by his side. “Well well,” He called, smiling his weirdly handsome smile. “Look at this.”

“We are busy, Cain.” Elle said, turning to dismiss him.

“Pretending to be a lady doesn’t mean you are one,” He said, drawing her attention back to him. Had he grown? Was that possible? She watched his attention shift to Nehema, and Elle looked at the Princess. She was staring at Ale with a sharp gaze, her lips slack. “And wearing a crown,” Cain said, “Doesn’t make you a real princess. Not anymore.”

Elle snapped. She strode over to him. “Don’t you dare talk to her like that.”

Cain laughed, and Verin echoed the sound. “Oh, that’s a lot of bark for the Prince’s lapdog,” Cain taunted. “Remember, doll, I know what you taste like. And it’s sweet.”

The guards were a far enough distance away not to see them. Ress was talking to Nehema’s men—none were looking this way. She could crush Cain's windpipe. Kick his balls and break his skull into the ground. He stepped closer, bent down low to breath in her face. “That’s right—hit me. Hit me with all that rage you feel every time you force yourself to be slower, weaker, softer than you really are. I can see it in you, festering, boiling up as you hold yourself back. I want to see, Lady _Elle_ ,” He sneered, stepped even closer. “What the great Adolin’s assassin has to offer.”

Fuck—had he said that loud enough for Nehema to hear? She might not want to be friends with an assassin, Endovier or no Endovier. “Unlike you, Cain, I’m not a beast. I can control myself.”

He snorted, looking over her head easily to look at Nehema, behind her. “You really think,” His black eyes shifted down to look at her. “That the Prince and Captain are the only ones who know what you are?”

They had no _idea_ what she was. Neither did he.

Two well aimed punches, and he’d be down. If she was fast enough, he’d be down before she could get hurt—but she wouldn’t mind hurting right now. Not if it meant watching him die—

“Elle.” Nehema said, in the common tongue. Her voice was sharp. Her hand reached out to wrap around Elle’s balled up fists. “We have business. Let us go.”

“That’s right.” Cain stepped back, going to his full height instead of looming over her. “Follow her around like the little lapdog you are.” Grinning, he said, “arf arf” in a high-pitched voice.

Elle let Nehema turn her, but she couldn’t expose her back to the man. She found herself asking, “That day, in the training room.” He arched his eyebrows up, wicked smile lifting on his face. “Were you there to kill me, too?”

Darkness filled his vision. Pure black, as wicked and cold as the mountains he’d hailed from. “You gave me something better, doll.” He patted his dick. “Real sweet.” He turned and strode away, then, not caring if his back was to _her_. She thought about coming after him. She could jump and—

“No. Elle.” Nehema whispered. “No. Come on.” She tugged Elle away.


	19. From the Mezzanine

# Chaol Westfall

Chaol stood with Dorian in the shadows of the mezzanine above the training room. They both watched Elle as she punched the padded wooden dummy at the edges of the floor. Sometime after lunch, she’d requested training time—and Chaol had decided to let her. And he took Dorian along so he could see, exactly, who he was trying to chase. See how bad an idea it was, how much of a threat she posed.

It helped that she was in a fine temper today. She swirled around the dummy, punching and kicking with a vicious kind of speed, now that she wasn’t pretending. It scared _him_ , at least. The sight helped him remember that the little girl he’d been dealing with, training with, becoming friends with—was, well, dangerous.

“She’s strong.” Dorian said beside him, watching her, too. “Do you think she stands a chance against Cain?”

Elle jumped up, leg slashing through the air and connecting with the dummy’s wooden head. There was a sharp crack, and the dummy, bolted to the floor, wobbled. The blow would have knocked a man out. Would have shattered Chaol’s leg bone—but he’d seen the scars on her shins. She’d put them there purposefully, for expressly that kind of kick.

“I don’t know.” Chaol said, wondering what it would be like to purposely scar yourself just to become a deadlier person, to fracture your bones bit by bit, so it grew back denser and stronger than before. It spoke of a level of commitment he could never harness himself. He could wield a weapon—but he could never become one himself. “She’s got the skills, no doubt about it. But she goes somewhere, when she fights, when she trains. She gets… wild. Unpredictable. I don’t think she can control her anger.”

That anger was there, always. In her mocking smiles, her sarcasm, her laughter. And when she went somewhere deep in herself, it threatened to blow everyone apart with the force of it.

“Who’s that?” Dorian asked sharply, as Nox entered the training room. He was walking casually over to Elle, smiling as she stopped attacking the dummy.

“Nox.” Chaol shrugged. “Joval’s champion.” The only other Terran. She never spoke about her country, but if it was mentioned, she’d go to that deadly stillness. It mattered to her, her country, her countrymen. 

Nox said something, which had Elle throwing back her head to laugh. Nox, too, laughed. “She’s made _another_ friend? I thought assassins were supposed to be misanthropes.” Dorian rose up from where he was crouched on the balcony’s railing. They watched her demonstrate a move to Nox. “And she’s helping him?”

“Every day.” Chaol grunted. He didn’t think telling Dorian that she’d saved the man’s life would help with the Prince’s strange obsession. “Usually after lessons.”

Come to think of it, the girl surrounded herself with people as much as possible. Most of it was dominated by training and tests, yes, but in her free time was spent between Nox and the Princess Nehema. When she wasn’t with them, she was with Chaol, or pestering the guards to talk to her, play cards with her. At first, Chaol had thought it was a way for her to dig under their skin, make them lazy and complacent in guarding her. But she seemed to just genuinely… need people.

“And you allow this?”

Chaol gritted his teeth. Yes, he did. In fact, he encouraged it. She was a _child_. A girl who’d had the hardest past than he could imagine having. He felt she needed to laugh more. And people did—they made her laugh. They took away all that sharp, disturbing anger that seared its way out of her eyes and turned it to something softer. Made her into less of a swaggering, mocking weapon, and more into a person. “If you order me to stop it, I will.” Chaol said. He would, too. Even if he didn’t like it.

Dorian watched Elle jump around Nox, pretending to shadow box him with quick-jabs as he stood there, laughing. “No. Let her train with him. She could… use an ally.”

“That she could.” And a friend. A community. Everyone needed those, to take away their inner demons.

Chaol sighed, watching Dorian get up and leave the balcony, his red cape billowing behind him. Chaol knew jealousy when he saw it. And knew possessiveness, too.

Looks like his plan had had the opposite effect that he’d intended. What had the girl _done_ to him, to dig under his skin so effectively? What had she done to Chaol?

He looked back at the girl. She was fine, with Nox around. That anger that burned her up had receded. So he turned and headed after the Prince, hoping that Dorian wouldn’t lead them all into serious trouble.


	20. Chapter 20

# Elle

Elle snarled at the crisp yellow pages of the heavy tome in front of her, trying to read the slanted, cramped handwriting. Like every book she’d found, it was useless. There were no convenient books on wyrdmarks. No books telling her about guardians, or even about the demons from the Second Great War. Nothing.

The library was gloomy. And if it wasn’t for Chaol flipping through the pages of his own book—some adventure story—it would have been silent, too.

“Done?” He asked, closing the novel.

“No.” She hissed. “Yes. Fuck.” She fidgeted in her seat as much as her corset would allow.

“I can’t believe this is how the deadly Stone spends her time, grumbling and hissing at old books like she was forced to read them.” He shook his head, a small smile on his lips. “Be careful that no one else hears about it—it would ruin your reputation, and Nox would leave you for Cain.” He laughed at his own sick humor, opening his book and going back to his pleasure reading. He seemed to like it, the quiet time. He’d told her once that he never got the opportunity to read, so she was glad she could give it to him.

She stared at him. Wondered what he would say if he knew what she was trying to research. How it would help him with his own goals. But she hadn’t mentioned anything about the wyrdkeys, the guardians, the dreams, the connection of the murders. Instead, she just subtly tried to get him to look at Cain as the murderer. Because she was _sure_ he was the murderer.

She slammed the tome shut, dusty flying into the air and making a satisfying, hollow boom in the darkness.

“Now you're done?” He asked, not looking up from his book.

“No, Goodman. I just tend to slam books shut when I’m reading them.” She leaned back.

She could figure out what the wyrdmarks were, where they came from, or what religion they were tied to. She searched all of the religious and historical texts she could find—and nothing. Sure, there were a few references to the things in some more obscure books, but nothing truly helpful, nothing that would get her to learn them herself. Wyrdmarks were an alphabet, but according to the more mind-throbbing texts, and alphabet with no grammar, no specific connection. Maybe because they required magic to connect them together, to bind them to location, to purpose, to each other, but dusty old analytical texts would never say that. Even if they did mention that the wyrdmarks had to be drawn in very specific angles and designs, or else they were useless.

“Stop glowering.” Chaol said, still not looking up.

She blew air out of her mouth. Threw her hair over her shoulder so it would stop falling in her face. “You know anything about wyrdmarks, old man? Those symbols around the clock tower?”

“Wyrd, hu?” He put his book down on the table, so his place was still marked. She watched him lean back further in his chair, head titled towards the ceiling. “I never understood what wyrd even is.”

“It’s a curse.”

“We use it as a curse, sure. Something to go against the gods—but what is it? Fate? Destiny?”

She stilled. “Why would fate be a God's curse?” The irony of her words wasn’t lost on her—her own situation was anything but pleasant.

He snorted at her biting sarcasm. “Just thinking out loud here, Elle. Thought it would help.” He reached for his book again.

“Some say wyrd is a force of nature.” She watched him put the book back down. “A flow of power that governs Erilea, the world, and even countless other worlds, too. Like magic, only stronger, more influential on life force. As if… as if every world in existence, with every creature that lives in those worlds, are nothing more than a single body. And the power, the wyrd, is nothing more than the blood that circulates through, giving life to smaller creatures, smaller worlds.”

“I’ve never heard of that.” He said, frowning.

“Some suggest that the Mother Goddess, Bringer of all Life, is just a spirit that came from another world. She found this one and decided to give it form, life.”

“How did She come here?”

“Something called a wyrdgate.” Elle gave the texts before her a frustrated look. “According to all these scholars, the gates are real, invisible, can’t be seen, but can be summoned. They open to the other worlds, or someplace inside the same world depending on—” She screwed up her face, trying to remember. “Depending on placement, and context, and design.” Elle flung her hand in the general direction of the ancient religious theory’s stacks. “Makes sense, right? The power between worlds is the wyrd. The way through the worlds is a wyrdgate. So the wyrdmarks have to be a way to channel the wyrd, or something.” Gods, her head hurt. “But what does it have to do with the wyr? The demons? The Gods?”

“Well, demons suddenly came between the First and Second Great Wars, right? Just popped up one day and started wreaking havoc.”

“Yeah.” Everyone knew that history. There was even a child’s rhyme:

“Three demon Kings with crowns of blood

eyes of blackest night that shines from above;

they look for their missing Queen, their love untold

and leave behind nothing but ashes and cold.

Two demon Kings with crowns of blood

say goodbye to their love and leave for good

but one stayed to tear at the Queen’s world.”

Chaol shuddered. “I always hated that rhyme. But there you go. Demons came from another world. Probably used the wyrdgates or something.” He went back to his book.

What the hell did any of this have to do with the dead competitors? The evil in the castle. Erawan had been destroyed by Queen Elena and King Adolin. He was gone. Were there more demons? Was something trying to come into through wyrdgates?

“You should find another way to occupy your time, Elle.” Chaol said, shrugging.

Like the Gods would let her.

Disgusted, she stood up. “I’m hungry.”

“I have an honest question.” He said, putting the book down next to hers. “When are you not hungry?”

Grinning, she grabbed his hand and hauled him out of the library.

* * *

She watched Cain spar with Grave at the next test. Their swords clanged as Grave was pushed into a corner, incredibly overpowered and outmaneuvered.

The test was fairly simple. Maybe because Brullo had run out of other ideas, or maybe just because he was a weapons master and had decided to go back to his roots—but the test was just a sparring match. Everyone was given a partner, and it didn’t matter if there was a winner or a looser. Brullo watched, and the person he was least impressed with was forced to go home.

According to Chaol, it reminded him of the “good old days” of guard-practice. The person who least impressed Brullo then would have to sleep out in the cold.

Nox, beside her, hissed and jumped a little as Grave tried to push Cain back, and only succeeded in overcompensating and loosing his balance. Ale was smiling the entire time, toying with the little man. And, deciding that he was done, he pushed his sword to Grave’s throat so hard there was a trickle of blood. “Excellent, Cain, as always,” Brullo cheered, clapping as Grave exposed his rotting teeth.

“Look out, Cain.” Verin said from her other side, since apparently he was her sparring partner. “Looks like the Lady wants a piece of you.” She hadn’t even realized she’d been glaring and snarling at the big lug of a man. She watched Cain laugh, his shirt coming up to wipe away some sweat. “Another piece, I mean.” Verin hissed into her ear.

“Watch yourself, Verin.” Nox warned.

“What?” They were attracting attention. Even from Pelor, who had decided to walk away from them once Verin said something. “Defending her again, are you?” Verin taunted. “Is that the bargain you two struck? She opens her legs, and you keep an eye on her at practice?”

She snorted. Why was it always about sex with these men? Was it because she was the only female they regularly talked to?

Elle _had_ tried with Nox, though. Not having a regular partner outside of her hand—and on occasion, her favorite pillow—was really getting to her, and she hadn’t had sex since she’d the male servant who’d taken over for Philippe one day when the old woman left the castle to visit her family. So Elle had tried with Nox. But the second she’d leaned over to kiss him, he’d pulled back and politely but firmly told her that it would never happen.

“Stop talking with your dick, Verin.”

“Or what?” Verin sneered.

She looked at him for the first time since they’d been called to spar together. He had green eyes, she realized. “Or I’ll rip your tongue out of your mouth.”

“Please, as if you’d want to rip my tongue out. I use it too well.” He licked between the v of his upraised fingers.

“Enough!” Brullo snapped. “Take it out in the ring. Verin. Elle. Now.”

Verin gave her a snack-charmed smile as Cain slapped him on the back. They walked into the chalk-etched circle, and Verin drew the sword he’d chosen. Elle took out her own weapon—a knife, since apparently her cover was blown—and watched it flash in the low light. She’d had enough of pretending. That, and she’d made a promise to Verin.

“Begin!” Brullo demanded.

Verin came closer, swinging. She lashed out, hitting the inside of his elbow, ruining the swing and some of his nerves as the sword went sailing out of the ring. He staggered, her leg came up, and she grabbed his head with both hands so her knee would send his balls up into his stomach. He gasped, groaned, moaned—but his mouth was open. She slid her hands down, her fingers finding their way into his mouth. He didn’t even have the thought to slam his teeth into her fist as she grabbed ahold of the slithering thing he called and tongue. Her foot came up to slam into his chest while her hand yanked back with everything she had. It almost slipped, but her nails dug in. When his tongue was yanked out as much as possible, her knife flashed.

He fell out of the circle from the impact of her foot. Then he started screaming. Wordlessly, of course, because his tongue was in her hand, the muscle still twitching.

It had taken maybe twenty seconds, if that.

She turned to look at everyone. Saw the confused faces of the trainers and sponsors above, who hadn’t been paying attention at the right moment. Looked at the pale faces of the other competitors. “Anyone else want to crack some joke about the fact that I got a fucking vagina?” She asked, voice roaring in the massive training hall. “No?”

She flung the tongue at Cain's feet. The bastard was grinning, spinning the black ring on his finger with his thumb. She made sure to curtsy to Brullo, then stomped towards the water barrel to wash the blood of her hands.


	21. Sam III

She burst into the room, laughing as Sam jumped out of his skin. She dodged the knife he threw, before rushing up and throwing her arms around him. “What—Elle—what’s—”

“Let’s run away!” She looked up at him, grinning. “Come on, let’s get out of the damn city. Let’s just go.”

He smiled at her gently, his hands running down her hair, her back. They snuck up her shirt, hugging and morphing to her bare skin. “And where would we go, wife?”

“Anywhere.” She lifted up onto her toes to kiss him. “Everywhere. Just you and me. No more hiding that we're married. No more sneaking around. Let’s go to some shore-town somewhere and live the good life, just you and me?”

“What?” He laughed, hauling her shirt up over her head. She stood bare chested in their apartment together, as his hands slid over more skin. “Find some little Inn to work in for food and board? We’ll suddenly become domesticated or something?”

She laughed at the idea, partly because it was absurd and partly to avoid the longing she felt at the idea. “Why not try it, Sam? Seriously? Why not try?”

“Because it’s not who you are. Not who I am?”

“Then we’ll become bandits on the road. Or we’ll go and sink pirate ships. Or we’ll trade goods and get fat and rich off other people’s misfortune. Come on—let’s just get out.” Her urgency must have been too obvious, though, because Sam shut down.

He stepped away from her. So she was suddenly half naked and cold. “What’s going on, Elle?”

She looked away. Towards their bedroom. Her own body still felt raw and aching from where her Master had touched her. From how he’d thrown her down onto the ground and shove himself inside of her while she was still dry. “He knows.” She looked back at Sam. At the defiance in his warm eyes. “I don’t know how, but Master, he knows—and we have to leave, now, before he finds us.”

“Let him come!”

“No.” She rushed forward, gripping Sam’s hands, pushing them to her chest, over her heart. “No, Sam. He’ll kill us.”

“We can take him. By the Wyrd, you can take him by yourself.”

She could. But she couldn’t protect Sam, not the way she needed to. Not when there was an entire city of threats and possible outcomes. Someone could shoot him from a window or a roof. He could find himself mugged in the streets. Stabbed at a party. And he was too wily and free-spirited to stay indoors all the time, at their secure and hidden apartment. “Please, Sam.” She looked up at him, tried her hardest to put as much pleading and love in her eyes as she could. “Try it out with me. I want to be free, don’t you?”

And he was going to say no—so she rushed forward and grabbed his hair. Pulled him down so their mouths clashed together in a tangle of lips and teeth and tongues. His resistance didn’t last long. With a moan, his hands slid from her heart to her breasts, squeezing the flesh there as she was again dragged to the floor.


	22. What the Princess Knows

# Elle

Elle looked up from the ancient book on religious philosophers who believed that the wyrd was a force of physics. The hinges in the apartment’s front door were loud enough to squeal, and she moved away from the table she was sharing with Ress to see…

Nehema stood there in a golden gown that set off her warm skin. She didn’t look at Elle or move from the doorway. Her eyes were on the floor and were glassy and dead. Khol streaked down her cheeks. “Nehema.” She grabbed the taller girl, holding her at arm’s length to look up into her face. “ _What happened at the play?”_

Nehema’s breathed, even and shallow. She slowly lifted her head. “ _I—I didn’t now where else to go_.” Her voice cracked.

“ _Tell me_.” Elle shoved the tips of her fingers to her lips. Then noticed the trembling piece of paper in Nehema’s grasp.

“ _They massacred them_.” Her voice broke. She shook, and then her legs gave out. Elle guided her softly to the floor. Ress met her eyes as he moved around them, and she nodded to him as he walked out.

“ _Who? Who Nehema? Is your family all right? What happened_?” She grabbed the girl’s face, holding round, solid features so she could look in Nehema’s glassy eyes.

Nehema’s made a broken, strangled sound. It broke Elle’s heart, forcing it to gallop and pound in her chest. “ _A legion of_ Adolin’s _army captured five-hundred Ellyew rebels hiding at the border of the Oakheart.”_ Tears stripped down her face, lingering on Elle’s suddenly frozen hands. “ _My father says they were going to Calcutta as prisoners of war. But some of the rebels tried to escape and… and…and the soldiers killed them all as punishment. Even the children_.”

Five hundred—butchered.

Elle closed her eyes. Terra had been destroyed at the purge—but it was nothing compared to subjugation, cruelty, and slaughter that Ellyew had been forced under for over a dozen years. The only thing that Terra had truly been forced to endure was the death of their royalty and magical power. But Ellyew’s royalty had lost its power while still living. And its people were being forced to pay three times the King’s fee in taxes and trade than the rest of Adolin. And their land was being taken. And their people were constantly enslaved for the smallest cries of injustice. Their pain was the slow, burning, unfair pain of a million different cruelties.

She opened her eyes as Nehema’s face buried itself in her neck. Her solid, lean arms wrapped Elle in the smell of palm oil and coconut as she trembled, then let out the keening wail. Elle held her. Elle held her because there was nothing else to do. She looked over Nehema’s head, to the guards that were standing in the now open doorway, tears in their own eyes. She didn’t even know their names.

“ _What is the point!_ ” Nehema wailed. “ _What is the point of being a Princess, of becoming a Queen, if I cannot even protect my people!”_ She trembled in Elle’s arms, so she held the Princess tighter. “ _What is the point!”_

Elle sighed. She smoothed a hand down Nehema’s back and held her tightly. There were no words to help, but… “ _Before I met you in the halls, I knew who you were. Your people, the rebels in Endovier, they sang of you. Talked of you. Cried out your name and taught me their language so they should share their love for their brave, rebellious Princess who fought for them tooth and nail, fought beside them.”_ Nehema cried harder.

“ _You do not hold the crown for power. You do not hold it for yourself. You are not even your own person anymore.”_ Elle said, fiercely. Her voice bordering on cruelty as she tightened her grip on the trembling woman. “ _The weight that you hold, the burden in your heart, is for them. For those that cannot protect themselves against evil monsters who consider the crown nothing more than a symbol of might and power.”_

She grabbed the Princess. Held her away so they could look in each other’s eyes. “ _You sob to me now, and I welcome it. I will always be here—but when you are done, you will stand up and you will put back on that crown. You will carry the weight of five hundred dead souls, and more. You will hold every tragedy. Every wrongdoing. Because it was your people who asked you to carry it, and your people who ask you to fix what it broken. So you will. Because you must._ ”

Nehema trembled. So Elle pulled her best friend back into her arms and rocked her, back and forth. And she sang the Princess the songs she’d learned in Endovier. Songs of sorrow, songs filled with longing to go home, songs of broken hearts. And then she sang her favorite. The one about a beautiful Princess who refused to bow and demanded from her people.

* * *

Elle felt her head rise up from the pillow as Chaol strode in just before dawn. Behind him, Philippe was still waving her hands in the air, saying, “Captain, you really musn’t—”

He stopped dead, and Elle quickly put her finger to her lips, to stop him from speaking. She’d found out last night the Princess slept, well, like a Princess. She woke to every sound, every shift of the bed, every creak of the window. Elle didn’t know if it was because of the stress of the night, or if it was simply because that’s how she slept. Either way, Elle was grateful that she’d decided to stay. Even if Nehema was pissy when she was woken up, it was still amazing to have someone there with her.

Elle got up slowly, careful not to shift the bed too much. Nehema, though, groaned a little before turning, her back going to Elle’s shoulder. “ _The insufferable man needs to let me sleep now_ , Elle.” She mumbled. “ _Make him go away_.”

Snorted, Elle shoved Chaol out of the doorway and closed it softly behind her. “What’s going on?” He asked.

“You heard about what happened, to her people?”

“You mean the rebels?” He seemed genuinely confused. “Yes, I’ve heard, but they were killed trying to flee—”

“And were still her people.” Elle said, a little too harshly. “And she needs me more than you need me to run in a park. So I’m canceling training today.” She crossed her arms over her chest and watched his eyes flow down to the amulet that had fallen out of her night-dress while she slept. His frown deepened. “What?”

“Nothing.” He frowned harder. “I’ll go then. Come by the guard’s hall around noon and we’ll have lunch.” He turned to go. “And tell the Princess… I’m sorry for her loss.” Awkward, frowning heavily, he turned to go. Elle wondered if the thought of danger—of Elle with the Princess behind closed doors—was even in his head as he left.

She turned to go back into the room. Nehema was sleeping softly on the left side of the bed, nearest to the windows. The heavy drapes from the fourposter protected her from the rising sun. She looked—not peaceful. But calm, now. Her face and eyes still swollen from the tears.

Elle moved to the right side of the bed, looking at the tapestry on the wall. The silver-haired woman in the center covered the hidden doorway perfectly, a symbol, maybe. And above it, the white stag peered out with a single eye. The symbol of Terra. Of King Brannon. Of the Father, a constellation whose bright northern star always pointed to the Kingdom Elle had called home.

For a long time, she’d thought about going back to Terra. The years after her Master had picked her up, half-frozen dead in the river—she’d fought him tooth and nail to go back. To find whoever had survived. To chase the rumors of Aedion being sent to the Bane. To tell her still fighting, but broken people, that she was alive. That she cared. But every time he’d restrain her. He'd tell her that she needed to be strong enough to go against King Havilliard. Eventually she stopped fighting to go back home. She’d only been a child and the idea of not having the security, the warmth, the guidance that her Master offered only to be thrust into the politics of a war-broken country…

She’d stayed. And as more years passed, Terra just felt so far behind her. As if she’d locked who she was, the real her, behind massive stone doors.

She could go back. Fuck the contest. Fuck Elena. Fuck the evil. She could go back to Terra, proclaim who she was, and help her people.

But it would accomplish nothing. She was better off here. Close to the King she needed to kill to free her people. And as the Gods—and Elena—led her to something, she’d find her moment to destroy the King, along with the evil, and free her country.

Hopefully.

She moved to sit on the edge of the bed. The book she’d been reading by candlelight as Nehema finally fell to sleep slipped off and crashed onto the floor. Nehema groaned but didn’t get up.

Elle knelt on the icy floor, straining to reach the book that had slid under the bed. She could see, with the morning light, the book tucked against the back wall. And she could see the chalk, too. See the dozens of wyrdmarks that had been carefully etched onto the floor under her bed in a giant spiral, centering around a singular wyrdmark.

She had no idea who’d have put it there. What it meant. But she knew how to get rid of them.

Heart hammering, she walked out of the bedroom. Philippe didn’t question her request and handed her a bucket of water that Elle filled in the bathing room before dashing it against the floor under the bed and washing it all away. The chalk was thin and disappeared in the flood.

She grabbed Nehema’s discarded dress off the floor, shaking the wet cloth. She’d have to give it to Philippe to wash, and have a servant go grab another dress for Nehema to change into. It—

A piece of wet paper fell out. She snatched it before it could land in the water. It was probably the note Nehema had been clutching, telling her about the rebel soldiers. Elle moved to place it on the nightstand, then saw the runny ink on the paper itself.

A wyrdmark.

Elle slapped the paper down, ignoring Nehema’s frustrated huff as she stormed out of the bedroom. She gave Philippe the dress—and the woman was gone with the promise of getting breakfast before Elle could start ripping her hair out.

Twenty-five years—twenty-five years she’d gone without seeing a single fucking wyrdmark. Now they were everywhere; on her ghost-given jewelry, surrounding dead bodies, under her bed, in her friend’s pockets. It was frustrating and infuriating and she wanted to punch something.

Actually, punching something sounded fantastic right now. She stomped to her dressing room, throwing on clothes. She was heading out as Philippe was coming back in. “Tell the Princess I left, Philippe.” Elle muttered, grabbing a flat-cake off a steaming plate before rushing down the halls. Her guards—it was Rodney and Ress, today—followed behind her silently.

She couldn’t begrudge her friend’s lies; Nehema owed her no truths, and Elle wouldn’t want to know anything that would compromise whatever the Princess was here for. But Elle _needed_ to know what the stupid wrydmarks were, how they tied into everything. And the fact that Elle had been running around, looking for answers when she had a teacher right there—

Elle stomped to the training room and went to work on the padded dummies, loosing herself again and again in the dull pain of working muscles and impacted limbs.


End file.
